


Freak

by aussiebrd23, LightDarkPheonix



Category: Doctor Who (2005), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Anorexia, BAMF Anthea, BAMF John, BAMF Lestrade, Depression, Eating Disorders, Hurt!Sherlock, It hurt me to write this, John is mad, Mary is delusional, Multi, Post return, Post-Reichenbach, Sherlock refers to himself as freak and it, Started before season 3, Suicide Attempt, TW: Suicide, extreme depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-06
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2017-12-31 16:00:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 31
Words: 30,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1033590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aussiebrd23/pseuds/aussiebrd23, https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightDarkPheonix/pseuds/LightDarkPheonix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>It didn't deserve to be loved, because it was a freak.</em> </p><p>Sherlock is not in a good place.</p><p>Warning: The content of the fic might be triggering to some.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

> This fic crosses over with Doctor Who a bit spontaneously. Sorry if that upsets you.

_Peace. Lovely white peace creeping into the corners of his vision. With the last bits of his energy, he curls tighter around himself, white cable-knit jumper shoved against his chest, held in by crossed arms. It's so nice, and soft now. He's not hurting anyone. Not anymore. Not hurting John, or Mary. Perfect Mary, who John loves, loves like Sherlock loves John except Sherlock is a scratched and torn and ugly and freakish disease, the only part of him that people need is his brain, and now that John hates him even that feeling of maybe people caring isn't enough to keep the black running deep into him, making even his brain not working._   
_Sherlock thought John had seen behind all the words and actions and into the Freak hiding inside him and that he loved him even with the Freak, but now he knows that John only just saw the Freak, and that when he saw the Freak he did what everyone else did, he ran away. But not with actions, no, with his words, and now all the walls are falling and Sherlock feels like he's still falling down and down and down._   
_Sherlock had tried so hard for a long time but it didn't work because even acting like he didn't exist, even making sure that there was no trace of his footsteps in the flat so that John and Mary could forget sometimes that the not-dead Freak was living in their house, wasn't enough. He didn't eat, or if he did bought food to make it look like he hadn't, no traces of Sherlock except in the corner that he took inside the too-big room that used to be his but now belongs to an office. That is where he is curled under the one blanket that is its right even though it's so cold, the cold its justice for hurting John, no longer its John because Mary won, and now John only lets it stay because John is kind even to those he hates. Because even John's hate is better than Sherlock's love, and Sherlock doesn't deserve love because Sherlock is the Freak, only useful because it can see things, do things that people consider useful._   
_Nobody loves a Freak, because Freaks loves selfishly and try to keep the people it loves close and it can't seem to stop its brain it tries so hard to be not itself but it can't and it hates being alive, except John made him seem special but now John hates it too so now there is no more reason for it to continue existing. It can now feel its brain stop buzzing, and he closes his eyes and it finally feels happy, because it can no longer hurt anyone anymore, and people will forget it and that will be okay, because Freaks shouldn't be anything other than footnotes, interesting distractions before they stop being useful, at which point a Freak's purpose is to stop being annoying, stop being alive. It hears something but all the pills it has swallowed makes the noise seem faraway, but then he hears something like his name, his John-name, not Freak and he smiles a little and whispers an apology before its mind goes blank, and it happily lets itself fall into that warm and peaceful blackness that has been slowly creeping around it._

* * *

 

 

Dear John,

you don't want me alive, and since no one else really wants me alive, including me, I will fix that problem by dying now, because when a Freak stops being useful it needs to stop being part of a world where it isn't wanted. The Freak is making you less happy with Mary, even though it has been trying hard not to even appear to be real. Why do you hate it it has been small and the only sign it is there is the mattress and the blanket in the corner where it sleeps sometimes, where it will die. You don't like it because it is a Freak, because Freaks don't deserve love because they aren't human. It is sorry that you ever met it because no one should have the bad luck of meeting a Freak. Don't be sad that it died, it should have died when it jumped but it didn't because it was stupid and thought the people it loved might love it too even though it was a Freak. Everyone knows I'm a Freak, even Frère he only cares because he is supposed to care for it because he is cursed with it as a little brother. Père only likes it because it is smart and Grandmère feels pity, because hate and pity are the only emotions that Freaks deserve.

It's going to die,

goodbye John.


	2. Note

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade finds Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still sad.  
> I'm sorry guys, my muse has decided to be overly angsty.  
> Also, two chapters is less than 24 hours. WOO

Greg enters the room quietly, John having told him that Sherlock is sleeping. What he finds instead makes him want to punch John, or possibly sic Mycroft on him. Sherlock is curled into himself on a small cot in the corner of what appears to be an office in disuse, a blanket that is obviously too small for him curled wrapped around him. He is too still, and the fear the sight instills in the detective inspector is exacerbated by the empty pill bottle on the ground near his head, and the folded note it has been gently placed upon. Greg runs over to Sherlock, frantically checking for a pulse. It’s there, but weak, and Greg takes out his mobile and dials 999.  
“Emergency, which service do you require?” the overly cheerful voice on the other end says. Greg hopes that she is not the type to forcibly make you go through all the questions, because he fears that unless he can get Sherlock to the hospital soon, it will be too late to save him.  
“My name is Greg Lestrade and I need an ambulance, a friend of mine has attempted suicide,” he says.  
Still in the fake cheery voice, she asks, “Where are you?”  
Greg resists the urge to roll his eyes. Can’t they just track the phone call nowadays? “221B Baker Street,” he says.  
“An ambulance is on its way” she tells him unnecessarily, and after a few seconds of silence Greg hangs up. The closest hospital is five minutes away, and that gives Mycroft enough time to either show up or call.  
He is not disappointed as a few seconds later, his mobile rings. “You’re not gonna like this” he says without preamble.  
“Oh?” Mycroft says, trying to seem detached despite the fear Greg can hear bleeding into his voice. Ever since they started sleeping together, the DI had gotten better at reading his boyfriend’s emotions, and anyway, at the moment Mycroft was emoting on the level of almost a normal human.  
Greg sighs, remembering how it had taken him a few seconds to realize that Sherlock lived in the flat at all. There was almost no sign of his existence, as if he was purposely making it look like he had never returned. Sherlock before the fall had taken up all the space in the rooms he occupied, blotting out everyone likes street lamps against the noonday sun. Sherlock now seems small, curled up inside himself, as if he is trying to take up the smallest possible space. “He swallowed a whole bottle of what looks like either sleeping pills or antidepressants, but he’s by some miracle still alive. There’s a note under the empty pill bottle, but I haven’t read it yet.”  
“Read it. It may be important, may help us know why Sherlock did this,” his lover says. Mycroft’s tone is clipped, and Lestrade hears the blankness it gets when his emotions start to overwhelm his capacity to deal with them. The last time this had happened was three years before, after Sherlock had faked his death.  
Shifting so that he is sitting down instead of kneeling by Sherlock’s bed, Greg gently moves the pill bottle off of the piece of paper. He unfolds it, and this takes a while because Sherlock folded it into small pieces, and he still is holding his mobile with one hand. “Dear John,” he reads, feeling like he’s just violated something private, but also feeling that John may be a reason for this. He reads the next part before he reads it aloud, and he is tempted not to read it aloud at all. For a second all there is on the line is his and Mycroft’s breathing, and Greg decides to finish this letter, even though it hurts him even to read it, and he can’t imagine what Sherlock must have been feeling as he wrote it. “‘You don’t want me alive, and since no one else really wants me alive, including me, I will fix that problem by dying now, because when a Freak stops being useful it needs to stop being part of a world where it isn’t wanted’,” his voice stutters now, and he feels like crying.  
When he stops, he hears a sharp release of breath on the other end of the line. Glancing down at his watch he realizes that it has only been one minute, that the ambulance has four minutes until it arrives, even though it feels like an eternity, only one minute since he found Sherlock curled into himself, distressingly similar to the teenager he had picked up off the streets nearly ten years ago now, in constant danger in overdosing in his never-ending quest to get rid of the constant buzzing in his head. “Did you... did you know that he thought this?” Mycroft whispers, any pretense of calm gone from him.  
Lestrade’s only answer is the crackling static that breathing across a phone line creates, and Mycroft understands completely. Greg couldn’t see it, even Mycroft couldn’t see it, because no one had really seen Sherlock since he had returned. Sighing again, he restarts reading. “‘The Freak is making you less happy with mary, even though it has been trying hard not to even appear real,’” how had John not noticed what Sherlock was doing? Had John even really noticed Sherlock, or has he been so wrapped up in Mary Morstan that he hasn’t even noticed his best friend after the initial anger and then acceptance at his return. “‘Why do you hate it it has been small and the only sign it is there is the mattress and the blanket in the corner where it sleeps sometimes, where it will die,’” Greg is crying unashamedly now, sadness mixing with anger at the world that had dehumanized such a brilliant human being. “‘You don’t like it because it is a Freak, because Freaks don’t deserve love because they aren’t human. It is sorry that you ever met it because no one should have the bad luck of meeting a Freak. Don’t be sad that it died, it should have died when it jumped but it didn’t because it was stupid and thought the people it loved might love it too even though it was a Freak. Everyone knows I'm a Freak, even Frère he only cares because he is supposed to care for it because he is cursed with it as a little brother. Père only likes it because it is smart and Grandmère feels pity, because hate and pity are the only emotions that Freaks deserve. It's going to die, goodbye John.’” He hears Mycroft on the other end, the utter silence that is his version of hiccupy sobs. “You love him, right Mikey? You do care for him, yes?”  
“Yes. I never thought, I never thought he thought I genuinely hated him. Sherlock is not a Freak, never a Freak,”  
Greg nods miserably, thinking of how Père must be him, and that he truly does love Sherlock like one of his own, as much as he loves his nieces, or the child that died inside his wife’s womb without him ever knowing it had existed until after she had terminated it’s life, except more because Sherlock is so real. How could he ever let Sally say what she did, he thinks guiltily. Had she named what Sherlock was already feeling, or merely exacerbated an already dug in image of his being? “I don’t think Mrs. Hudson pities him, either. God, I am going to kill John. Mycroft, his room is a mattress in a blanket in an office that used to be his room before he jumped. What has John been doing?”  
“I don’t know, Gregory. I have... I have to go. I am sorry,” Mycroft says, and then hangs up. Lestrade keeps the line open for a time, before putting his phone down. He considers rushing out and confronting John, who is likely still happily chatting with Mary in the kitchen, but instead decides, with a hint of cruelty, to wait until the ambulance arrives to tell him. Maybe he is misjudging the situation, but at this moment, it certainly feels like John has stopped caring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this isn't the gallant rescue by John some of you wanted, but it will happen soon. And DON'T WORRY, John isn't evil. See the comments on chapter one for my thoughts on the matter.


	3. Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns some truths.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hopefully a little less angsty?  
> Actually lies, just as angsty, sorry dearest reads :)

John is talking to Mary when he hears an ambulance near by. He initially ignores it, until he hears the sound grow close and stop moving, and someone running up the steps and banging on the door. He opens it, and the paramedic says, “Are you Gregory Lestrade?” in lieu of greeting him. John shakes his head in confusion. He thought Greg had left, after he had given the answer “He’s sleeping” to the question “Where’s Sherlock.” This has become his usual answer when asked about Sherlock, whether because of denial or ingrained religious imagery, he does not know.  
He does not have time to answer when Greg walks out of Sherlock’s room, carrying a deathly pale and unconscious, but very alive Sherlock awkwardly in his arms. “I need a stretcher, he’s taller than me and I’ve no idea how long I can hold him,” he says, in a voice that tells John that he has very recently been crying. Mary opens her mouth to say something, but then closes it. This is final proof to the doctor that Sherlock is real, has been real, despite the fact that Mary has claimed that the Sherlock he was convinced was living with them was a hallucination, and John feels the guilt in his stomach like a blow from the butt of a gun. The paramedics get to work, hoisting Sherlock’s inert form onto the stretcher, and John tries to follow but is grabbed by Mary, and also everything seems to have slowed and the only thing that seems real is the note that Greg passes him, already read by the tears blurring the writing.  
By the time John can pull himself out of Mary’s grip the ambulance is already speeding away, the sound of the siren slowly fading until it is gone completely. He turns on Mary, sick anger rising in his throat. “You told me that his return was a nightmare. You said, ‘I heard you screaming his name John, are you alright?’ You let me believe that I was hallucinating my best friend, and you led me to say things that drove him to suicide.” He waves the note in her face, and she refuses to look at it.  
She looks at him, eyes wide in an expression that even seconds before would have had him begging for her forgiveness. Mary grabs at him, even as he backs away from her, and says “But he’s not real John, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t see anything today, why are you suddenly like this?”  
It takes all of John’s self control not to slap her. Instead he forces himself to let it all go, unclenching his balled fists and slouching. He feels bile rise in his throat as he notices the hope in Mary’s eyes, but also the sincerity. The utter, complete sincerity, and the fact that she believes what she is saying. “Mary, you are telling me that I just hallucinated Greg walking by with Sherlock in his arms, and also hallucinated him being taken away in an ambulance,” he says, and she nods.  
John feels like someone has just pulled the plugs from his feet and drained him empty, and not in a good way. He feels himself collapse, no longer capable of supporting his own weight, and luckily there is a chair conveniently there to catch him. Despairingly, he looks up at his (soon-to-be) former girlfriend, realizing with a jolt that she was the one with the hallucinations, except her delusion is even worse than the one she told him he had. Mary’s delusion is conditional. John’s mind skitters away from considering what she may have told Sherlock, then forgotten about until speaking with him again. “But John, I have to fix you. I have to get rid of your delusion and make you healthy,” she says earnestly, and John refuses to look up at her. Instead, he unfolds the note and reads it. The note addressed to him, and as he reads he adds a few more tears to Greg’s.  
Then John remembers a conversation with Mary from the day before, with a supposedly hallucinatory Sherlock standing (too) quietly near the counter that always seems too clean. ‘It’s still there?’ Mary had asked, John now flinching because she must have known, some part of her must have known what that had done to Sherlock. ‘Yes, it is. I don’t want it, I want Sherlock alive,’ he had answered, and Sherlock had appeared to vanish, probably just stepping out of his line of sight, fleeing from words that considering the context Sherlock was likely taking them in, were unbelievably cruel. He had screamed at her soon after, because she had told him that it made no sense for him to grieve over such an insignificant friend. ‘You don’t fucking get it, you didn’t know him,’ he had whispered, realizing somehow even then that the cracks between him and Mary had already started to form.  
John is jolted back to the present by a hand on his shoulder, a hand that he shakes off violently before heading towards Sherlock’s old room. He nearly collapses again when he sees the corner, and runs over and finds one of his jumpers. Mary, who had followed him, quiet footsteps somehow still echoing loudly in his ears, starts when he rounds on her. “In my ‘nightmare’, I remember giving Sherlock much more than a cot and a blanket for him to sleep with. What did you do Mary?” he asks, somehow speaking through the lump in his throat. He is still clutching the white cable-knit jumper in one hand, the only thing on Sherlock’s he has now, besides a violin that he had refused to allow Mary to see, hidden in a box in his room.  
“I gave him what the Freak deserved. His love for you is dirty, John, I have to remove it so you don’t have any more dirty feelings,” she says, the earnestness in her voice scaring John more than any mad raving could have.  
A part of his ‘nightmare’ surfaces, and he remembers kissing Sherlock, drinking in the realness of him, trying to absorb every little thing that he may have forgotten. The next day Mary had woken him up, telling him that he’d just had a nightmare, and he had believed her, an act which must have been interpreted from Sherlock as regret. Mary had likely not helped either. “Sherlock is not a Freak. I love him. You know I love him.”  
He doesn’t bother looking back at her reaction, instead grabbing his coat and running through the door, down the seventeen steps and out onto the streets, out into the night. He plans on hailing a taxi, but does not resist when he sees the black car pulling up. Whatever Mycroft has in for him, he certainly deserves it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, what'ya think?


	4. Drive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations on the way to the hospital.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit short, but I think it works.

As soon as he sees John enters the car, Mycroft starts speaking. Not yelling, oh no, the emotions inside him are too thick and uncontrolled for him to actually emote them, having long surpassed Mycroft’s ability to handle them correctly. “My brother is, as I speak with you, having his stomach pumped to remove a high dosage of zolpidem from his system, commonly known as Ambien. He appears to have downed an entire bottle in an attempt to end his own life. Now, he also left a note. A note that while addressed to you, Greg read aloud to me over the phone while he was waiting for an ambulance to arrive, while you were sitting in the kitchen with your girlfriend,” if Mycroft had not been himself, he would have spit that word, instead he just fills his tone with disdain, and grins to himself when he sees John wince. “Sherlock called himself a thing, referred to himself in the third person with the neuter pronoun ‘it’. He thought he was doing you a service, killing himself. How could you do that? Are you so annoyed over his fake death that you would drive my little brother to kill himself?” At this point, Mycroft has raised his voice, while John has dropped his eyes to the ground.  
If he had not been so distracted by grief, perhaps he would have noticed John absentmindedly rubbing at his left wrist, or his defeated posture, or every little detail that declared that he was not going to fight Mycroft, no matter what the government worker chose to do. He notices is these things now, as John whispers in a voice that seems heavy with age, “I didn’t think he was real. Mary told me that, and I believed her. Mary was the first person to make me laugh after Sherlock jumped, did you know that? I believed her, instead of believing my eyes. I believed her, instead of believing my memory of kissing Sherlock as soon as I was certain he was real, of feeling his fingers under mine and getting the miracle I’ve wanted since the day he jumped.”  
Mycroft stares at him in the darkness of the car, not quite believing the words he hears. Every sign John is giving says that he speaks nothing but the truth, but Mycroft has met Mary, and it is difficult for him to believe that someone even he will admit is truly kind would do something of the sort. “What led you to realize her deception.”  
John looks up, blue eyes looking unblinkingly into Mycroft’s. “She claimed that I had hallucinated Sherlock being carried out on a stretcher, despite the fact that she had also heard the sirens, and even responded to the paramedics when they arrived. And she called Sherlock a Freak. I can't, I can't deal with that, especially after reading the note." Mycroft sees John's hands ball up, and then he sighs, and collapses inwards on himself. "I nearly slapped her. She's so... she's so fucked up that I barely recognize her. I kissed him Mycroft, she told me it was a nightmare, and I believed her. I hate her so much, but not as much as I hate myself."  
Mycroft had not expected this, a defeated John Watson admitting to having been thoroughly manipulated by his apparently delusional girlfriend. And the doctor's passive acceptance makes his anger cool a bit.  
That is when Mycroft understands that he and Greg may have saved Sherlock's life, but John will have to do the rest. "Will you be breaking up with Mary?" he asks.  
John laughs, a low and bitter laugh. "Of course, now we just have to see whether or not she believes me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You think I should do Sherlock or Lestrade next?


	5. Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg waits to see Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why can't I write anything happy?

Greg resists the urge to pace, instead venting his frustration by holding his hands so tightly he may have broken them, had they not been his own. This is what he hates about hospitals, the waiting, and the not knowing. And the scene is too reminiscent of the first time he met Sherlock, if met is even the correct word. He had found the then 27 year old Sherlock Holmes barely conscious in an alley, the needle gripped loosely in his hand making the reason for his near death obvious. That night had also been the first time he met Mycroft, tired and worried sick for his younger brother.   
The parallels between the two situations do not escape Greg, except this time it will be much harder to convince Sherlock that he has a place among the living. The Sherlock of nine years before had only needed things to keep his mind quiet, keep him tethered to the dregs of what one could call his sanity. The current Sherlock, the one only recently returned from a frantic journey across the world lasting three years, who was having his stomach pumped in an attempt to remove a lethal dose of zolpidem removed from his system, had done something that he had obviously tried desperately not to do. He had fallen in love.   
Greg sighs, feeling as if he may implode from the anger he feels on behalf of the detective. What has driven John to do this, to make Sherlock’s life such a hell? Because it isn’tt hard to see why Sherlock has fallen in love with the man. He is the first person besides Mycroft and himself to see beyond the mask Sherlock allowed the word too see, and had seen it instantly when it had taken Greg over a year to see the scared young man who had given up on being cared for much too early on. It makes Greg sick to think that he could do this out of resentment. Greg had felt angry when Sherlock had first revealed himself, but now all he felt was relief. Now he could go about his life without feeling like he had driven one of the greatest men he has ever known to pitch himself off of a building. And the guilt has returned, because the unhealthy self-image that Sherlock displayed in that note can not have come over night. It must have built itself over months, years even, until Sherlock had convinced himself that killing himself was an act of love, because removing himself from the picture would make those around him happier.   
The fact that it doesn’t surprise Greg that John didn’t try to go to the ambulance saddens. Whoever John has become, he isn’t the man he has known for the past four years. He had seemed so alive again, when Sherlock had first returned, and Sherlock had even texted him, telling him that there may be a chance that the two of them would become a couple, a real one, not just two close friends who were often mistaken for one.   
He hadn’t received any texts from Sherlock after that, despite his many enquiries, and from his visits to 221B, is was obvious that John was still with Mary. And John had always told him that Sherlock was sleeping, whenever he would show up and ask for him.   
Suddenly the pieces snap into place, and Greg’s anger drains out of him. He remembers John fighting against Mary, who was holding him in place, and the look of realization on his face when Greg shoved the note into his hand. John in his memory looks over at Sherlock and seems to see him as alive for the first time. And finally, the DI understand why John’s answer was so familiar. Before Mary, in the two years where it took the combined daily efforts of him and Mrs. Hudson to keep John’s gun from his mouth, John had refused to state aloud that Sherlock was dead. He always would say that Sherlock was sleeping, that he had fallen asleep, the religious imagery obviously a holdover from a time where the doctor had faith in a God.   
John had been under the impression that Sherlock was still dead, that his return was yet another in a series of nightmares. And Mary had likely been a part of this, her attempts to pretend that Greg was not there a testament to that fact. Greg drops his head, cradling it between his hands. Why is is that these situations are never easy? He wishes that he could just direct his anger at one person, who truly deserves his wrath.   
Greg’s thoughts are distracted from their frankly depressing route by a doctor walking into the waiting area. “Are you Sherlock Holmes’ family?” she asks, holding a clipboard and pencil, exactly as the doctor who had treated Sherlock nine years before had.   
“Yes, I’m his father.” Close enough, he thinks, as the doctor leads him into Sherlock’s room. Greg has been more of a father than Sherlock’s biological father ever was, at least according to Mycroft, as Siger Holmes had died years before Greg met his sons.   
The doctor, whose name is Dr. West according to her name tag, holds the door open for him, and closes it gently before saying, “He will probably wake up in a few hours. That’s how long it will take for the the drugs we couldn’t get out of his system to pass through him.” Greg nods, having already planned to stay for however long it takes for Sherlock to wake up. Dr. West sighs, before continuing. “I know that he tried to kill himself, and I have to tell you something. There are fresh scars on the insides of his ankles, and also badly healed blotchy wounds, as if he’s been scratching off his skin, then picking off the scabs that form over. There is no infection, but there might have been had be not caught and disinfected them. He’s also extremely dehydrated, and I would say malnourished, but in the sense that anorexia patients are malnourished. When your son wakes up, it will take a long time for you to convince him that you did not make a mistake, bringing him here. Are you ready for that? Are you willing to put in the time it will take to do so?”  
Greg nods, a lump in his throat. “I don’t think... I don’t think I’ll be the one to do that. There’s someone else, who he loves, and I’m pretty sure is in love with him, who will have to save him. But for now, I’m willing to try.”  
She returns the nod, and says, “Sometimes that’s all you can do. But I know that even help unwanted is very strongly appreciated, even if he won’t, or can’t admit it at first.” She smiles a bitter half-smile that tells Greg that she’s saying this from experience, and she leaves, closing the door behind her.   
Greg goes and sits in the chair that has been placed next to Sherlock’s hospital bed. He has a theory that hospital chairs are uncomfortable in an attempt to make patient’s family members go home after a time, but he knows that this rarely works.   
Sherlock looks wrong. He doesn’t have a breather, unlike last time, but he’s still connected to more tubes than any human being should be. The steady beeping of the heart monitor is concrete proof that he is alive, but he looks pale, like the corpses that he prefers to live people, for reasons that anyone who cares enough to get to know him realizes soon enough.   
Greg grabs Sherlock’s hand, despite feeling like a cliche doing so. “You’re not a Freak. And I care for you, Sherlock. And so does Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson, and John too, if what I’ve guessed is correct."  
Maybe it’s his imagination, but Greg feels a weak squeeze against his hand. That theory is disproved when blue eyes snap open, and the guilt in them makes Greg’s heart clench. “I’m sorry I messed up,” Sherlock whispers. Then he violently pulls his hand away from Greg’s, and clutches it against his chest, nearly tearing out the IV. “I’m sorry.” His heartbeat remains unnaturally level throughout this, and Greg nearly chokes on the tears he feels.   
“Sherlock, I’m so happy you’re awake. Please, don’t ever try that again.” The confusion in Sherlock’s eyes is heartbreaking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heart broken yet?


	6. Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another sad one (so sorry, sorry)  
> Maybe a little better?  
> Maybe?  
> My head canon for Mycroft shows up a little.   
> So: TW for eating disorders.  
> Also, TW for reference to attempted suicide and possible self harm.

It’s confusing, when he doesn’t see anything in Greg’s eyes except relief. Wouldn’t he be upset, that Sherlock failed at doing the one worthwhile thing he can do, and that is removing himself from the picture? He can’t help himself when he asks, “But why? I’m supposed to be dead, but I’m not. Why didn’t you let me die?”   
Greg’s eyes appear to be wet with tears, and that distresses Sherlock, because he’s never really seen the man cry, the last time he did was when he had found out that his wife had terminated their child before Greg even knew that the child existed, and she had feared that it would be proof of her infidelity. Why would Greg be crying over him like he was his child? Sherlock did consider Greg almost his father, but the emotions couldn’t be two way, could they?  
Greg wipes his tears, and says, “Because I care. And here’s the thing, you are important. Extremely. To me, to your brother, and to John even.”  
Sherlock shakes his head violently at that. “No, I’m not. Not to John, at least. He proved that...” he finds it hard to talk, an odd block in his throat and tears in his eyes making him lose focus, “I don’t matter. He k- kissed me, and then he f-forgot. He said that he l-loved me, but then the next day he continued to be with Mary and he st-stopped looking at me.”  
Sherlock is surprised at the shock in Greg’s eyes, because he thought that he’d known. Because today is the first time that Sherlock has seen the detective since he came back, even though he’s heard him speak to John a lot. “Sherlock, that is not okay. John has no right to do that,” he says, and Sherlock feels safe. Greg will protect him, he knows that. Maybe even from himself.   
“It’s o-okay that I’m alive?” Sherlock asks tentatively, still not entirely sure on the subject.   
Greg grabs Sherlock’s hands in his own, and looks unblinkingly into his eyes. “Yes, it is. You are an important person. And you are not, and never will be a Freak.”  
Despite the fact that it doesn’t look like Greg is lying, Sherlock has to be sure. “How do you know that? I’m messed up, and hurt and all broken edges and dirty, and I can’t stop myself from hurting even me,” he says, referring to the blotchy scratched off bits of skin that the doctors must have found while removing the Ambien from his system.   
Greg shifts Sherlock’s hands a little bit, until the pads of his fingers are touching barely noticeable bumps on the insides of his wrists. “From my experience, the most interesting people are often the most broken. It doesn’t stop hurting, but it does get better, I promise,” all Sherlock can read is earnestness, and truth, and it shocks Sherlock. Because he has always felt alone with his pain, alone with the tearing and scratchy feelings that are always there, too much for him to handle, whatever that gave him his mind also having both increased his emotions and decreased his capacity for dealing with them.  
“You...?” he asks, hoping that how he says it asks his question for him.   
Greg nods, and says, “I wasn’t in a good place during school. I did some things I probably shouldn’t have, and my life very quickly spiraled out of control. I ended up in a hospital, wrists bandaged pretty heavily. You’re not alone, Sherlock. And whatever that bitch has said to make you think that, it isn’t true. Because John doesn’t know you’re alive, Sherlock. He would always tell me that you were sleeping. Do you understand what that means, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock shakes his head, confused. He had heard John answer that each time Greg had appeared at the flat, and had always wondered why he had said that, even when John seemed to know he wasn’t.  
“You’ve probably deleted it, considering it’s religious in nature. Catholics believe the dead are just sleeping, waiting to wake up.” Yes, Sherlock would have deleted information like that. But this confuses him.   
“John isn’t Catholic though.” he says.  
“But maybe he was brought up Catholic, and the imagery stuck. What I’m trying to say Sherlock, is that for most of the time that you’ve been among the living again, John has thought you dead, and every time he saw you, he thought he was hallucinating.”  
Gregs words are like the last piece he needs to put a puzzle together, and the conversation he heard the day before suddenly makes more sense. John was not saying that he did not want Sherlock, he was saying that he wanted Sherlock alive, and did not want a phantom presence in his home, proof of mental instability. Hot, bubbly anger wells up at Mary, who had told Sherlock over and over that all the hurts she had said to him, and the mean yucky feelings she felt towards him, were shared by John. “But how do you know this. Has he told you?”  
Greg shakes his head. “He was forcibly detained by Mary, and did not come to the hospital with the ambulance. He’s likely being brought here by Mycroft. And Mary refused to acknowledge that I was there. I’m working off theory, right now, but I think it might be right. I’m no where near as smart as you are, but I’ve been doing some thinking, while waiting for you to wake up, and it’s led me to some conclusions that don’t really paint Mary in a favorable light.”  
Mycroft, yes. Wouldn’t he be disappointed though? Sherlock was an annoyance, an obligation foisted on his older brother by the curse of relation. “Why would he be coming?”  
“He cried, Sherlock, when I read the note to him. He loves you a good deal, your older brother does.” Mycroft, crying? Mycroft hasn’t cried since uni, when Sherlock had found him bent over a toilet, doing his level best to forcibly empty out his stomach.   
“He cares?”  
“Yes, he does care, he cares quite a bit. Some may say he cares too much, like you do. Both of you, when you let yourselves, care so much that it hurts you.” Truer words had never been spoken to Sherlock, and this saddens him. What did it mean, that the only time that he and his brother could emote was when they were not in fact feeling emotion?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you liked it, folks.
> 
> Mary: For god's sake, why do you hate me so much? I'm just doing what's best for John.
> 
> Me: Because your a delusional b--ch, that's why (sorry Mary fans)


	7. Promise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I'm in it for the long-haul_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, sorry, this is another sad one. But a little more hopeful?

When John arrives at the hospital with Mycroft, he is greeted by the doctor who he can tell has been up all night performing emergency surgery after emergency surgery. “You’re here for Mr. Holmes, aren’t you?” she asks. At Mycroft’s questioning eyebrow, she adds, “I recognized him from Dr. Watson’s blog. Not surprised he’s not dead, really. I can keep a secret don’t worry. C’mon, his room is this way.”  
John follows behind her and Mycroft in a daze. Being in the hospital has made Sherlock’s suicide far more real than he could ever want it to be. He arrives at the room, and sees through the window that Greg is already there. From the looks of it, he and Sherlock are talking, and there are tears on Greg’s face. The guilt that John feels makes him want to throw up, and he places a hand against a wall to steady himself for a moment.  
He turns to Mycroft, who must have read the question of his face, because he nods, and says, “You can go in.”  
John walks into the room, wishing that he had his cane. The silence is deafening, broken only by the beeping heart monitor, and John struggles to speak beyond the lump in his throat. “I screwed up. I believed her, and now I nearly lost you again, when I had just found you,” he says, and he feels tears building in his eyes. He blinks once, twice, and only just manages to keep them from falling.  
“So I was right,” Greg whispers, and Sherlock nods weakly. It takes John most of his energy just to keep himself upright, the pain in his leg making him want to collapse onto the floor, and the pain in his heart making him want to collapse into a little ball.   
He fails, and his leg collapses under him, and he is now sitting, back against the wall across from Sherlock’s bed, and he feels extremely small, and very, very old. “I thought it would be easier, if I was ever not the one in the hospital bed, I was wrong,” he whispers.   
“You aren’t upset, then?” Sherlock asks, and his words bring back memories of waking up, even after certainty that his actions would end in John’s own death.   
“Of course not, Sherlock. If you had died, for real this time, I don’t think... I don’t think I would be alive much longer,” he says. He remembers how in recent days that the gun in his drawer had become even more tempting than ever, as Mary’s lies continued to wrap around him.  
John vaguely notices that Greg has left, closing the door gently behind him, but most of his focus is on the man lying too quietly in the hospital bed. He struggles to his feet, and makes his way to the chair, before collapsing again. “You’re hurt,” Sherlock whispers, surprise evident.  
John shakes his head in the negative. “Not hurt, just my limp acting up again. You know it’s connected to my emotional state, and that hasn’t been so good lately.”  
The tears and sobs he has been trying to keep inside him start breaking through the cracks, and he feels wetness trickle down his cheeks. “I love you. You probably hate me, right now, but I still love you, so much.”  
“I love you, too. A lot. But Mary s-said, she said that you hate me for loving you.”   
John at the moment seriously contemplates murder, but decides that she isn’t the worth the effort it would take to finish her off. “I would never hate you Sherlock.” he grabs one of Sherlock hands, and presses his fingers against Sherlock’s longer ones. “I was so alone, and then you came along. I resented that you died, and I hated the world for taking you, but I never hated you, never could.”  
The look of surprise on Sherlock’s face makes John’s heart hurt. “I needed to keep you safe.”  
“I know. I remember. I just thought,” John inhales deeply, “I thought that you returning was just my mind screwing with me again. Mary knew that I had had nightmares before, where you came back and then I woke up, and she used that to her advantage.”  
Sherlock grabs John’s other hand, and whispers, “So you said the truth? You do love me? I’m broken John, and I won’t be able to hide all the pain from you anymore. I can’t.”  
John nods. “I’m in it for the long haul, Sherlock. I love you too, and you aren’t the only one who’s broken. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter will be the conversation outside of the hospital room, between Mycroft and Greg.


	8. Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Outside the hospital room, Greg and Mycroft have a conversation of their own, where promises made years before are reaffirmed, in light of recent events.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, a little happier? Maybe?  
> Thank you to Doctahlock for being brilliant.  
> Thank you to all my lovely reviewers I LOVE ALL OF YOU.  
> What follows are my personal headcanons for Lestrade and Mycroft. There is no basis in canon except for the common fan theory that Mycroft has a form of eating disorder.

For a long moment, the two of them are just watching the conversation going on on the other side of the glass. It is not enough for Mycroft to read their lips, but he can read John’s emotions as if he is shouting them aloud to the world. Sadness, guilt, despair, and hope, shining bright. It is moments like this when Mycroft feels a pang of jealousy for people who can openly express their emotions when they actually feel them, people who can in fact handle all the irrational feelings constantly at war within their minds and bodies.  
He pushes the feeling away a few moments later, to be looked at later. Preferably much later, because the thought that he, the Ice Man, could feel jealous of another’s ability to emote is mildly distressing.  
To distract himself from his thoughts, he breaks the silence, saying quietly to Greg, “Both of them need help. I do not know if Sherlock will be willing to get it, but John will, I think.”  
Greg nods his assent, and the quiet that always settles over everything in hospitals seems to keep him silent for a few moments, before he says, “If we can find a therapist, a good therapist, who John trusts, do you think that Sherlock’d be willing to talk to them?”  
Mycroft considers the idea for a few seconds, grateful that Greg knows him well enough to know that his lack of reaction does not mean he hasn’t heard him. Sherlock trusts John implicitly, is devoted to him on an almost unhealthy level. This had been Sherlock’s downfall, with the “aid” of Mary, but might also be what could lead him to at the very least partial healing. “Yes. I think he would be. But it will not be easy to convince Sherlock that he even needs therapy,” he warns.  
His husband snorts, a sound that would have had the potential for a full belly laugh were they not where they were. “Considering how long it took me to convince you to seek help, yeah. Though I can’t really talk, can I?” he says, referring to a pact he had made with Mycroft two years before. John had not been the only one to suffer after Sherlock’s death, both Greg and Mycroft feeling guilt for not seeing it earlier. Mycroft had only learned of his little brother’s survival days before he revealed himself to John, so he had been convinced that his actions had been what had driven Sherlock to an early death. Even after the magic trick had been revealed, Mycroft had felt the guilt, because, as Greg put it, you don’t even consider the idea of suicide unless you really, really mean it.  
The effect of this guilt was that a problem that Mycroft thought he would never have to deal with again reared his ugly head, and he soon felt himself caught once again in the grips of the anorexia nervosa that had plagued him well into his early twenties. This, coupled with Greg’s gradual relapse into alcoholism caused by his own guilt had nearly pushed their relationship to breaking, until one day Greg had found Mycroft passed out on the floor, having not eaten for nearly a week.  
Mycroft had woken up to find a thankfully sober Greg holding his hand, having obviously not slept in the time he had been unconscious. His husband had told him that he had joined the local chapter of alcoholics anonymous, but please, please, could Mycroft get help as well. The decision they had come to was a sort of outpatient rehab center for people struggling to with eating disorders, and it he had been surprised to find out that some of his few colleagues were also at the group, obviously having the same problem that he did.  
Mycroft is brought back to the present by a gruff, “You still in there, Myc?”  
He nods, saying, “I was just thinking on our own experiences with therapy,” and Greg nods.  
“I think that it will help the both of them, knowing that we’ve also been stuck inside our own brains. But maybe we should wait until they start dealing with their own stuff, before springing it on them. I carried John for a while, when it got really bad, and I don’t know if he’ll let me do that after he knows that I’m just as banged up as he is.” The last part is whispered, like it’s some terrible secret, and Mycroft tentatively hugs Greg, hoping that he can still be comforting despite being rather emotionally constipated.  
“From what I have learned, admitting weakness is one of the strongest things a person can do, when hurting. I do not believe that John will think any less of you if you say anything. Sherlock on the other hand...” Mycroft sighs, and suddenly Greg is more of the one doing the holding, and Mycroft lets him hold him, because he trusts him more than anyone else, and he finishes his thought with his face buried in Greg’s chest, muted but still audible, “Neither of us are normal. And, I mean, I know he didn’t know but what if he continues his comments, but worse now because he’d know?”  
“You’re really good at hiding love, and if he’d known how much his comments hurt you, I don’t think he’d have said anything. You know it’s his emotionally stunted way of showing affection, though hopefully he’ll grow, with help.” Mycroft realizes that maybe Sherlock’s attempt on his own life had made them all realize how precious life was, and silently promises himself to give Sherlock all the space he needs. Though perhaps a little bit of surveillance is necessary. Mycroft is, of course, himself, and he worries about his little brother constantly. This has not changed.  
Mycroft pulls away, and lets himself smile a little. “I love you.”  
Greg grins, and nods. “I love you too. Remember that.”  
“I will,” he says. Sometimes, he can’t believe it, but right now, even though they’re in a hospital, he does, with every part of him that can.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in an hour in a half. Hope it isn't terrible.


	9. Mona Lisa

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary is... not healthy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the title is a P!ATD reference. Watch the music videos for Ballad of Mona Lisa, I Write Sins Not Tragedies and This Is Gospel, and you will see a huge amount of my inspiration for this fic.

Mary is waiting patiently for John to come home. It worries her that he’s gone off again like he did when the hallucination first started plaguing him, but she knows that eventually he’ll come back. He always does. Something in the back of her mind tries to tell her that maybe continuing to disregard Sherlock as a hallucination is a bad idea, but she ignores it. John needs to stay with her, because only then can he be perfect.   
She gets up to open the door when she hears banging on it, and to her surprise when she opens it, John is not alone. The ginger who claims to be Sherlock’s brother is there too, and he doesn’t look very happy. Mary smiles at them, not understanding why they would be so upset. “Usually it only take one person to make John realize that he’s seeing things, but I guess I could use the help,” she says, giggling.   
John’s eyes go from angry to confused to very sad, and this doesn’t make much sense to Mary, because the sadness is directed at her, not at the world as it usually is. “Mary, I’m breaking up with you. I know that you still have your flat on Praed street, so could you move back there if possible, or just out? I can’t,” John presses a hand to his face, and Mary can see that he leg is paining him more than is usually does, “deal with you right now. Not after what you’ve done, what you’ve said.”  
Mary looks at him, his words not filtering through clearly. “But you can’t leave me, I make you perfect,” she says calmly. Why doesn’t he understands how much he needs her? Even if Sherlock were real, and he isn’t, because that would be impossible, John didn’t need him as much as he needed her, because Mary could love him and Sherlock couldn’t, because Sherlock was another man, and men can’t love each other like that.   
“No, you made me non-suicidal. I love you Mary, but not like I love Sherlock. You told me he was fake. I love him, you told him he was fake, and that I was hallucinating his return. He isn’t fake, he’s not a Freak. He’s the best man in the world and I thought you got that. If he wasn’t alive, maybe I could stay with you, but he is, and I can’t,” John says, and Mary is confused when she hears the desperation in his voice. This is a bad one, then, she thinks, because usually he isn’t convinced by hallucinations for this long.  
“But John, you don’t understand. You can’t love him. That’s impossible, men can’t love other men. I can give you love, but he can’t, he’s broken. I can, I’m perfect John, and I can fix you and make you perfect.” She walks over to him, still smiling, and tries to place a hand on John’s face in affection. John recoils from her touch, which makes her confused. He’s never done that, even when they fought, which was only once, a few days before, when she had tried to explain to him that loving someone who was dead made no sense, because they might as well have not existed. Even now the fog is taking away the fight and she remembers how he had finally conceded to her point. So why is he here, looking so angry? It’s confusing, and she hopes that John will explain soon.  
“So he is alive, is he? You realize that, don’t you? Is that why you called him a Freak, gave him little to use, and refused let me realize I wasn’t dreaming when I saw him? And yes, I can love him. I can love him wholeheartedly without deluding myself,” he says, and she doesn’t understands what she means, talking to Sherlock, because Sherlock is dead, so how could she ever talk to him. A little piece comes out of the fog, half a memory of her giving him an old blanket, but it gets swallowed before she can really look at it, so she just blinks at John.  
“He’s not alive John, you have to realize that.” It’s weird, she thinks, because the ginger has disappeared, and then the fog reminds her that the ginger was never there, why was she even thinking of the ginger?   
“He is, though. I’ve seen him, hooked up to an IV, in a hospital room after having his stomach pumped after swallowing an entire bottle of sleeping pills, pills you said you had thrown out after I threatened to kill myself with them a year and a half ago.” John says, and the calmness in his voice is confusing, and also what he’s saying doesn’t make any sense. John had never tried to kill himself. She has a partial thought of placing the pills in the medicine cabinet instead of the trash, but she has a lot of partial thoughts like that so she ignores it.  
“But he isn’t, John. He’s not real. So how can he be dead if he never existed? Remember, now we have a marriage to plan.”  
“No, we don’t. I never proposed to you Mary.” Of course he had. Mary remembers how he’d proposed to her the night before (they’d fought, but the fog had replaced that memory) and how romantic it was.   
“Yes, you did.” She says, earnestly. She blinks slightly when she hears a buzzing noise, and stares blankly at the empty spot where it is coming from. John is talking to the blank spot, which confuses her, and she decides to go make tea. Smiling sweetly at John, she turns and walks towards the kitchen. “I’ll make tea, ok sweetheart?” she says, wondering why he looked so worried. It wasn’t as if they’d had anything but a normal day.  
She doesn’t look back, but behind her, John and Mycroft are looking at her horrified. She comes back with the tea a few minutes later, and doesn’t understand why John’s face is suddenly fuzzy. It's like he's upset, but why would he be, because she has tea, and he's had a normal day at work. Something invisible takes one of the cups, and she looks at the empty space, puzzled. Suddenly she sees Sherlock's ginger brother, and she gasps, nearly dropping the tea cup. How did he appear like that? Is he magic? "Why are you here?" she asks.   
John looks at her with an expression of worry. Why is he worried, it’s just a normal question? “I’ve been here since John returned. Do you not remember?”  
Mary shakes her head. He isn’t making any sense. John and her had just had a normal conversation about his work. She looks at the two of them, puzzled, and forgets completely the fake thoughts that John has just broken up with her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mary isn't healthy.  
> I was scared for her, while writing this.


	10. Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mary doesn't remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this is a little less depressing?  
> Lies, it's still sad.   
> Also, congrats to me, ten chapters!!

John feels fear grip his insides as he saw Mary’s glazed over eyes. How has he not noticed this before? When he thinks about it, he realizes that their was always something off about her. She was too clingy, and seemed to be constantly editing the past. Whatever her delusion was had protected itself quite well, because he only noticed these moments in retrospect. He feels a little guilt, when he thinks that maybe his breaking up with her has caused her to crack completely. Because it cannot be healthy not to notice a person being there. What had her mind done, edit an old memory of the entryway over Mycroft? And John knows he is getting older, but one does not forget things like proposing marriage.   
“Mary, what have I just said to you?” he asks gently.  
“Well, there was a little old woman at the clinic who was convinced that she was about to have a heart attack, even though it was just something a fellow bingo player had slipped her to make her off her game...” she says, getting excited, and she continues rambling on, and on, and John realizes with a start that she’s in fact talking about a conversation they had over six months ago.  
“Mary, I just broken up with you.”  
She smiles at him, what she obviously thinks is a sweet smile but in fact reminds him of the pictures of lobotomy patients he had seen in medical school. “What do you mean silly, you proposed marriage to me last night, why would you do that?”  
Edited over memories he could understand, but false ones? What was this? What was wrong with his girlfriend, and how had he never seen this before? “I didn’t propose to you. We fought. And tonight, Sherlock attempted suicide. I’ve been at the hospital the last five hours, and I’m only here to tell you you need to go, and because he is finally sleeping.”  
Mary shakes her head, still smiling. “No, that’s not right. It can’t be right, because you wouldn’t do that Johnny. You’re not the type to have bad love Johnny.”  
John can hear Mycroft sigh, and say, “I can corroborate what John says. Not the fight, but everything else, yes. My husband is currently keeping watch over my little brother, and we have come here to tell you that John no longer welcomes you in his home.”   
Mary turns towards Mycroft, and starts shaking her head more frantically. “I don’t want bad love people near my John. You’ll make him feel bad love, and then I’ll lose him and he won’t be perfect anymore.”  
So not only is his ex crazy, she’s also homophobic, if John is interpreting her comments correctly. Well that... that’s just great. To be perfectly honest, at this moment John is convinced that Mary needs therapy more than he does, and before right now he that that was impossible. He’s about to open his mouth to say so, but Mycroft beats him to it. “Ms. Morstan, I have a car outside to bring you to Gordon Hospital. You need help. I’m sorry, but I fear you have no choice in this matter.”  
Amelia walks in, still typing at her blackberry, and grabs Mary by the wrists. “No, no, no, I’m not crazy, I need to be with John, because I’ll make him perfect and fix his bad love to the Freak,” she says, over and over and over as Mycroft’s PA walks in.   
John stares after her as he hears a car drive away into the night, and sighs, feeling even more drained than he thought possible. “Back to Sherlock then?” he says, and Mycroft nods.  
For once leading the way, John makes his way down the steps, into the first weak hints at dawn. He enters the car, and thinks sadly that he should have noticed this in Mary sooner. Perhaps what had happened was when Sherlock killed himself, the two delusions she was keeping up collided, and she lost it completely. “It is not your fault.” Mycroft says, once again reading his mind.   
“Yeah. But there’s something that is, that I need to fix. You know any decent therapists?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To the hospital we go.
> 
> Sherlock: I slept during this time? I never sleep.
> 
> Me: Even you need sleep after attempting suicide, you know.
> 
> John: Are you ever giving us back to ACD?
> 
> Me: NOPE
> 
> Mycroft: God help me.


	11. Gospel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father and son, or close enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning, major angsting ahead  
> It'll get better, eventually, but for now... not so much.

Sherlock rolls his eyes in annoyance as yet another nurse starts prodding at him. “I’m fine, alright? I’ve already got this blasted thing in my arm, I don’t need any other bits in it. I don’t like needles,” he says, not bothering to be horrified at this admission, instead fiddling some more with the IV line because he knows it annoys the hell out of the nurses. Not that he would in fact remove it. He knows that he, in his less than healthy recent state of mind, first an obsession to get home in the least amount of time possible, and then a chronic depression that ironically enough he has only managed to shake after taking it to the extreme, did not take care of his body enough. The fluid entering his veins is replacing the nutrients that had slowly depleted themselves as he had forgotten to bother with things such as eating and even sleeping more than an hour a week or so.   
The nurse nods, but says, “I need to take a blood sample, so make sure there isn’t anything left in it. That you woke up so quickly is nothing short of a miracle. And I won’t be using a needle, remember?”  
Sherlock snorts. Miracle his ass, he only woke up so quickly because his years of drug abuse have given him a high tolerance for any sort of chemical. But, he also allows the nurse to take his blood, using the little glass square that pricks his finger, making a hole small enough not to be visible after the sample is taken.   
He leaves, and Sherlock collapses into bed, cursing the fact that his body is as weak as it is, and deciding that despite the fact that these emotions were certainly here to stay, that didn’t make them all pleasant. “I’m sorry,” he says, before looking down at his feet covered by the blankets.  
“Not necessary. Though seriously, emotion check in?”  
“Confused. Tired, mostly. Anger, some. I miss John,” Sherlock is only this honest because it is Greg, who has acted as his stand in therapist for as long as they have known each other.   
“He’ll be back. He’s just doing the possibly arduous task of breaking up with Mary.” Sherlock internally winces. That sounded... unpleasant. Mary had never seemed particularly stable, and from what he has heard, Sherlock does not think that she has gotten any better.  
“Ah,” he says. Then he looks down at his feet again, and takes the water at his bedside and tries not to obviously gulp it down. “Um, do you think I need therapy?” he asks, deciding that bluntness is the best policy.   
“Yes,” Greg answers quickly, without any hesitation. “Do I think you’ll willing go to it, or that we’ll find a therapist willing to work with you? That’s an unknown. Look, it helps. Take it from someone who’s been there.”  
Sherlock looks at Greg, shocked. And then curses himself for not noticing it sooner. How badly had his fall affected others besides John? He knew about John trying to kill himself, and that is why he never truly protested his meeting Mary (anything, to make John happy, anything at all), but Greg? Greg was the rock that Sherlock has crashed up against again, and again, and again, and to find that he also has cracks? Is...  
Sherlock realises that it is not as world shattering as one might think. In fact, knowing that he is not the only one in the very small group of people he considers close to him to have dealt with this unnamable crushing something is oddly comforting. Greg looks worried, and opens his mouth, and Sherlock can almost hear the platitudes, the stupid, stupid words that people find comforting, and so he covers his ears in a manner that is more symbolic than an actually act of blocking sound, and says, “It’s alright. It’s good, actually,” he drops his hands, and resists the urge to fiddle with them. “Um, cause, you know, it’s nice. I mean, obviously you don’t know what’s it like for everything to be so loud all the time,” he makes a vague gesture, and notices that it has the jerky quality he fights so hard against usually, but ignore it in favor of continuing onwards, “But you do know what it’s like to hurt, right? And I know that that’s my fault and I’m really sorry but, I had too. I had because I don’t know what would have happened if you all died. Maybe I’d go insane, or you know, kill people. I don’t know. It wouldn’t be good. I think.”  
Greg nods, and smiles at him, and Sherlock feels for an instant like he’s the most important person. And he remembers how he used to read books where parents loved their children, and how the parents thought their children were the best people in the world. And he remembers how his real parents had only viewed him as interesting because of his brain, and promptly backed off from that train of thought. “I was hurting long before you decided to save my life by swan diving off a hospital Sherlock. And it was more the strain at trying to hold both John and Mycroft up that led me back to the bottle.”  
“Mycroft?”  
Greg looks surprised, then shakes his head. “Of course he didn’t tell you. Considering how much I didn’t want to tell you about my problems with drink, I’m not surprised he didn’t tell you about his own issues. Mycroft is pretty badly anorexic, and it took him passing out and me signing up for AA that finally led him to seek help.”  
The heavy knot of guilt already festering in Sherlock’s stomach tightens, and he remembers all the biting comments about Mycroft’s weight. He had thought that Mycroft’s struggles with food were over, but now, in retrospect, he realizes that perhaps he should have guarded his cruelty more, and thought more about his words. “I knew. I found him, once, attempting to induce vomiting. I helped him, as he later helped me, and then I messed it up. Again,” he says, and unconsciously starts knocking his loosely balled fists against his knees, until it starts hurting. He doesn’t stop, because some vicious part of him thinks he deserves it, until he feels Greg’s hands covering his.   
“Hey, stop that. You know what, you and John both need therapy. To be perfectly honest, I think you should probably see the same therapist.”  
“That makes sense, I suppose. I would really only trust someone if John trusted her or him.” It surprises him how much he’s already let himself get wound up in John again, how easily he has forgiven him. Perhaps it is because John is John is John is John, and how extremely important he is makes almost anything he does forgivable, especially considering the fact that everything Mary had said to Sherlock was one big, delusional lie. Whatever it is that makes Sherlock Sherlock has made him latch onto John entirely, and now he understands why Mycroft decided to marry Greg. Holmes need keepers, need people to keep their minds from tearing them to pieces. At least, Sherlock does.  
“Look, I can’t say you’ll be okay. And things’ll never be completely quiet. But things do get better. I promise.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was tempted to mention the dawn again, but decided that would make me a bit cliche-y.
> 
> Mycroft: I have anorexia.
> 
> Me: Yes.
> 
> Mycroft: Better than being a rapist keeping Moriarty in his basement, I suppose.
> 
> Me: 0.o
> 
> Mycroft: Not my idea. 
> 
> Me: RUSSIA PROTECT ME FROM THE CREEPY MAN
> 
> Russia: You asked for me дорогой? 
> 
> Mycroft: oh gods.


	12. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More conversations, and sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little more angsty?

Sherlock nods, and Greg lets out a sigh of relief. It is always hard, to see him like this. Greg can only imagine what it must be like for Sherlock, because if it’s hard for Greg to deal with everything during moments of emotional upheaval, how must it be for someone who sees everything, and forgets none of it?  
Greg knows that Sherlock’s claim to be able to delete information is utter bullshit. Maybe he can hide it, bury it somewhere deep inside himself, but get rid of it? Sherlock shares his brother’s curse of hyperthymesia, remembers everything since puberty, or there about. Not one moment goes by unrecorded, and that is why both Holmeses need people to watch over them, to keep their minds from consuming them in time.   
“I tried to be normal, once,” Sherlock’s voice is quiet, and Greg stays silent, hoping that Sherlock would continue, but not willing to force him if he didn’t. “I made a conscious effort to stop deducing, purposely stopped seeing anything. And it hurt. But it was also peaceful. That’s actually how I started becoming dependent on substances,” Greg unconsciously breathes in, and mentally buckles his seatbelt. Revelations about Sherlock before he met Greg from Sherlock himself are few and far between, and usually are far from happy.  
“I don’t know what I was taking is called, but it made me less intelligent. But it also made me really sick, so Mycroft made me stop taking it. But I miss it, sometimes, and I don’t know if it’s the addiction or something else.”  
“Hey, Sherlock, remember that you are brilliant.” Greg says this, has been saying this, hoping that at some point it will sink in. If it weren’t both illegal and impossible, Greg would go back and time and seriously injure all the people who had ever been cruel to Sherlock, but he didn’t deserve it. Sherlock latches onto Greg’s hand and pulls it against him.   
“I miss John,” he whispers, and Greg wonders for a split second whether or not a codependent relationship of the kind that John and Sherlock somehow still had despite being apart for three years at all healthy, then decides that healthy and realistic are not always consistent.   
“He’ll be back, remember?” Greg says, and his heart clenches when he sees the relieved expression on Sherlock’s face. The man is so child-like sometimes, and it hurts, truly hurts him to see him tearing himself apart, constantly being thrown around by life and sometimes even his own mind.   
Sherlock leans back against the hospital bed, still holding Greg’s hand, and his eyes flutter close, and he drifts into a much needed sleep.   
Greg thinks about what Sherlock had said, in passing as if it had meant nothing. Being driven to make yourself less intelligent is something no one should deal with. He would have to ask Mycroft about this, eventually. But not for a good long while. At the very least, not in front of Sherlock, and not while all of them were still raw from the emotional aftermath of Sherlock’s attempt on his life. For now, he would have to be there for the emotional fallout that would inevitably happen as soon as what Mary had done had truly sunk in.   
His mobile buzzes, and he picks up after noticing that it is Mycroft’s private number. “How’d it go?” he asks without preamble, and the silence on the other end is more telling than any answer. “That bad?” he asks, hoping that ‘bad’ did not include physical harm on either his husband’s or John’s part.   
“Mary is currently on her way to the ward at Gordon Hospital. She does not remember John breaking up with her, and appeared not to realize I was in the room.” Mary was cracked. And apparently had been cracked for some time, and everything had finally imploded tonight with John breaking it off. Greg doesn’t feel too bad for her though, especially when he looks at Sherlock and hears the gentle beeping of the heart monitor.   
“As in, ignored you, or didn’t see you?”  
“She did not see me. Also, she recounted a conversation she had with John several months ago instead of their actual conversation when asked, and is convinced that John proposed to her two nights ago.”  
“I’m scared now. How is John?”  
“Desperate to see Sherlock. How is my little brother?”  
“The same, though currently sleeping. When will you be here?”  
“A few minutes.”  
“Alright.”  
Greg hangs up and puts his mobile back in his pocket. Outside, the day is growing brighter, and he thinks that maybe he should sleep as well. He shelves that idea, considering he has promised himself he will keep vigil over Sherlock.   
A few minutes later he is grateful for that decision when Sherlock starts thrashing in his sleep, in a way that shows that whatever he is seeing behind his eyes is not good. “Hey, Sherlock, wake up, you’re alright,” he says, shaking him, worried not only that he will pull out the IV but that he won’t be able to wake him, and that Sherlock will be stuck wherever his brain has placed him.   
Sherlock’s eyes open, pupils down to pinpricks, and for a second Greg is worried that he is still in the nightmare. This is dispelled when his eyes dilate, and he blinks again, very much awake as he recognizes Greg. “Is she gone?”  
It isn’t hard to understand who the ‘she’ is. Damn Mary and her ilk. Even illness does not justify driving someone to suicide. “Yes. She’s locked up now.”  
Sherlock nods, and turns over and falls asleep before Greg can continue speaking. He prays that this time, sleep will be peaceful. Whatever Mary has said to him, whatever he will be forced to remember for the rest of his life, he will have to deal with that later. For now, Sherlock sleeps, and Greg watches, and thinks about how his life would have been different if he had never met this man and his brother.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moriarty: What's this I hear about being held in Mycroft's basement?
> 
> Me: GO AWAY. I love you Jim, but you are dead in this fanfic.
> 
> Moriarty: Aw... that's annoying. I guess I'll just have to hurt someone you care about.
> 
> Me: Jim, go back to Moffat, I don't need you right now. 
> 
> Moriarty: I'm hurt.
> 
> Me: Deal with it. I am the author, and the supreme commander of this story.
> 
> Douglas: Martin?
> 
> Me: WHY DO PEOPLE KEEP FANDOM HOPPING


	13. Victoria

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I often wonder if I should have been born at another time. My senses are unusually, some might say unnaturally keen, and ours is an era of distraction. It's a punishing drumbeat of constant input. It follows us into our homes and into our beds. It seeps into our... Into our souls, for want of a better word. For a long time, there was only one solution for my raw nerve endings and that was copious drug use. In my less productive moments, I'm given to wonder.... If I had just been born when it was a little quieter out there, would I have even become an addict in the first place? Might I have been more focused? A more fully realized person?_  
>  -Sherlock Holmes, The Marchioness, Elementary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter folks. Hope you enjoy it. This is officially my longest story ever.

Mycroft arrives at the hospital with a sense that something has just gone terribly wrong with his brother. He tries to ignore it, because there is no such thing as an extra sense, and just because he feels something might be wrong with Sherlock does not necessarily mean it to be true. But even this rationalization does not keep him from exhaling slightly in relief when he enters Sherlock’s hospital room to find him sleeping peacefully, Greg looking like he might join him soon if he does not have coffee, or better yet, goes home and takes a few hours of sleep to make up for those he has missed keeping vigil over his pseudo-son’s bedside.  
“He had a nightmare, a few minutes ago, but he’s sleeping calmly now,” Greg says, turning towards them, obviously having heard the door open.   
“Mary?” John asks tentatively, and for a moment a hot, slimy wish for revenge rises inside of Mycroft, before he squishes it. Revenge, while satisfying, is technically not moral, according to Greg, and also illegal. At least the type of revenge Mycroft was thinking of, anyway.  
Greg nods, and John sighs. Greg runs a hand through his hair before speaking, sounding almost as tired as he had when Mycroft had woken up after collapsing three before. “I’m sorry. I probably should have seen it, I was just so grateful that someone making you happy, John, so I never noticed what now seems to have been a pretty serious problem with delusions. Was she on anything?”  
For once, Mycroft genuinely does not know, having been too wrapped up with his and Greg’s problems to have run more than a cursory check on Mary, so he turns to John, who says “Yes.” He coughs, and adds, “Um... I know she was using sleeping pills, because it was her pills that Sherlock used, and that I threatened to use myself a year and a half ago. But at the time that I did threaten to use them, she told me she was off them, and that she was going to throw them away. How she ended up keeping them, or why she didn’t throw them away as she said she would, is a mystery to me, I swear,” he drags a hand across his face, before using it to steady himself against a wall, an action Mycroft has seen him do too many times in the past twelve hours, and breathes out heavily. “I shouldn’t have believed her. Just, god. Who knows what she’s said to him, what he’ll be forced to remember for the rest of his life. At least with me, things eventually fade with time.”  
His last statement surprises Mycroft. “You know about the condition that both my brother and myself have?” he asks, and John nods.   
“I figured out a while ago that your brother’s story about deleting things was untrue. I’m still not sure how he didn’t figure out that I spent a good deal of time quizzing him on stuff that only someone with hyperthymesia could remember, like color shirt was the lab tech from a case three months ago wearing. Normally you would think that he just has a good memory, but the amount of cases where he remembered every little detail led to the conclusion. I’m also not surprised to hear you have it. You and your brother are extremely similar.” This appears to be yet another case of Mycroft not giving John enough credit, and he wonders why Sherlock did not just bring him along. And then again, Mycroft was not the only one with a tendency with underestimating the good doctor.   
“I figured it out a while ago, actually, during one of his rants he used to do while high, you know the type,” Greg says, and Mycroft nods, as he does, sadly. “And he was going on about how loud everything was, and how nice it would be to forget everything, for once.”  
Mycroft nods, and thinks to when he’d first noticed a sharp decline in Sherlock’s grades, and how his little brother had suddenly seemed to lose his intelligence, his mind suddenly becoming identical to those of his peers. He had found out a few weeks later that Sherlock had been purposefully self-medicating when he had fallen violently ill, and it had made him want to lash out at all the children who hurt Sherlock enough for him to want to essentially lobotomize himself. He didn’t though, because he felt that perhaps following the laws of society was a good idea, especially if he wanted to continue rising in the ranks of the government, unofficially of course. “This day in age, it is very loud for people who see everything. When we were both younger, we sometimes thought what it would have been like to have grown up say, two hundred years before.”  
John grins, and says, “You would have ruled literally a third of the planet, and he would probably be doing the same thing. Greg would still be part of the Yard, and who knows, maybe I’d still be lucky enough to meet the world’s only Consulting Detective.”  
Greg nods, and says, “The only problem is the fact that the four of us would be criminals under the law.”   
Mycroft nods, and and John snorts. “Knowing you two, I doubt you’d consider that much of an obstacle.”  
“Point,” Mycroft says, ignoring the uncomfortable thought that if they were in the time of Victoria Regina, so would have been Jim Moriarty. “You know, I do believe that there was a war going on in Afghanistan at roughly the time you speak of.”  
John looks at Mycroft incredulously, and then bursts out laughing. “God, I probably would have had a mustache.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holmes: Are you telling me that I am in a homosexual, illegal relationship with Watson?
> 
> Me: Yes.
> 
> Holmes: However did you figure it out?
> 
> Me: It's kind of obvious.
> 
> Holmes: Really?
> 
> Watson: There was speculation, even in our time. 
> 
> Me: The word "ejaculate" doesn't really help.
> 
> Watson: That means interject!
> 
> Me: I know. Doesn't keep me from facepalming every time I read it though.


	14. Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He is loved, and he loves, and nothing could possibly be better.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I just want to say something. I wasn't really motivated to write this chapter. I only got two reviews on chapter 13, and that kind of, well, sucked. And I know there are a lot of stories out there that don't get reviews, but I thought you guys liked my story, so... yeah. I'm sorry, I know I'm being whiny it's just... look. I put a lot of effort into these things. It might not seem like much, but 1000 words per day is a lot for me, especially since I have all the things that come with school, like homework and projects and what-not. So, if you read my story, and you like it, please you know, take the time to leave thoughts, even if they're just con crit. But I wrote this because I realized that I also like writing.  
> Also these boys need happiness, so I gave them happiness. Sort of.   
> Happy tears are shed, so that counts, right?

Sherlock wakes up, again, with John sitting next to his bed. He vividly remembers having a nightmare about Mary and Moriarty, morphing into each other in his head. Usually he doesn’t dream, and this is something for which he is grateful as his dreams are usually weird in nature.   
His mind flicks back to the conversation with Greg, and he panics. Had he really told him all of that? No, no, that wasn’t good at all, because then Greg will see into the Freak and want him to go away, and he’s just woken up now, and he can’t deal with the emotions rejection will inevitable...  
Sherlock stops his thoughts, and shakes his head a little, the motion strange because he is lying down. He can’t think like that, this is why he admitted to Greg that he likely needs a therapist. Because the thoughts he is constantly directing at himself are not healthy, in his more self-aware moments he is aware of this. And he doesn’t know how to stop it, even now knowing that he’s not the only one forced to deal with the nasty side-effects of human existence such as pain, and guilt, and depression.   
“I missed you,” he whispers, hoping John hears him.   
John looks over at Sherlock, and smiles, looking happier than the last time that Sherlock saw him, right before he went to break it off with Mary, when he had looked like he was carrying a much too heavy burden on his shoulders. “Same, especially when I thought you weren’t real. God, Sherlock, I’m so sorry I never saw through that,” he says, and his smile falters for a second, before returning, thankfully not any stiffer, as sometimes happens.   
Sherlock tentatively reaches towards John, his movement still restricted a bit by the IV line, and John meets him somewhere in the middle, and they are the calloused hands Sherlock remembers from the first day he returned, before Mary’s lies had infected both their minds, and finally he realises fully that yes, John is here, with him, despite all his faults, and not with the perfect fantasy life that Mary was convinced she embodied. “She lied to both of us John.”  
He breathes slower than he normally does for a few moments, to center himself, and to try to remove the nerves that are attempting to make him not ask this question. For an instant he is distracted by annoyance at the unruliness of his emotions, and how they will not let him say what he wishes without effort, before realizing that he is mentally derailing and dragging himself back to the topic at hand. He really does want to know what Mary said last night/this morning, but he also is worried that John has lost a chance at happiness that Mary represents, by choosing Sherlock over her. Finally, he says, quicker than he wants because he just wants the words out, “Did she...? Was Lestrade right?”   
John nods, and squeezes Sherlock’s hands like they are part of something precious, and says, “Yeah. She’s crazy alright. She thought, she thought that I had proposed marriage to her, instead of that conversation you overheard.”  
That... that is not good, Sherlock realises, and can not stop the small feeling of glee that it is in fact Mary the one who is crazy, not Sherlock or John as she has been trying to convince the both of them for the past weeks. “I wonder,” he starts, than coughs, and takes a sip of water before continuing, “I wonder why she had those pills, in her cabinet? They were made out to her, but didn’t appear recent, old even, the date on the bottle from a few years ago,” he asks, details popping out at him as they always do, his blessing and his curse, this ability to remember every little thing.  
John scoots the chair closer to the side of the bed, and to Sherlock’s surprise places his head on the edge of the hospital bed, not quite close enough to touch Sherlock’s chest, still holding his hands, though shifting a bit to accommodate the change. “You won’t like the answer,” he says, and Sherlock understands, even this seemingly out of place behavior.   
He would laugh, were the people involved not himself and John, because the absurd sentimentality of this coincidence is almost ridiculous in a morbid sort of way. The sleeping pills that Sherlock downed in an attempt to kill himself, were the same sleeping pills that John would have taken had Mary, in all likelihood, intervened. “I’m sorry,” he says, wishing that he could go back in time and bring John along with him on his mad dash around the world to end what had long stopped being a game.   
“Don’t be like that,” John says, and he shifts a bit, and Sherlock realises that John is now completely on the hospital bed with him. With anyone else, the gesture would have made him uncomfortable, because usually there are certain... acts associated with sharing sleeping space, but he sees John’s action for what it is, an attempt to reassure himself that Sherlock is in fact very real, has always been real. John breaks his grip on Sherlock’s hands, curling himself with him instead. Sherlock predicts that this is likely not the best thing for John’s back, but at the moment he doesn’t care, just glad that John is just, well, there. “You’re here, and I’m here. That’s what’s important, right? When you’re better, we’ll go on cases again, you’ll see.”  
John sits up, and as Sherlock had assumed, rubs his back, and grimaced. But then he smiles, even as he shifts over to the chair again and jerks it backwards. “Look, Sherlock, I can’t say things'll be the same. You were, well, dead. And so was I, really, even when Mary was there. But things’ll be better. Because, I love you, and that has to mean something.”  
Before the fall, Sherlock would have laughed at his words, sentiment being something he ran away from with all his might. Now, he has already said the words, many times now to John, and wants to say them again, now, but the words stick in his throat because suddenly there is a lump in his throat, that is keeping him from talking. And there are tears, in his eyes, and on his face now, and he brings his non-tethered hand up to touch the tears, uncertain as to why they are forming.   
“Hey, Sherlock, it’s okay. You alright?” John asks, concern coloring his voice.   
“Yeah,” Sherlock says, and smiles, not one of his fake smiles, merely muscles pulling against muscles, but a real smile, a John-smile, and then he adds, “I think... I think they’re happy?” he says, and John smiles again, and Sherlock feels a warm feeling in his chest, and he suddenly understands why the heart is the metaphorical center of emotions. Because John, he’s understood, even though Sherlock didn’t say much, and that means that something even better than the weird symbioses they had before the fall has happened, and Sherlock finally manages to whisper, “I love you.”  
He is happier than he has been in a long time, and for once, the part of his brain that supplies all the thoughts that hurt is blessedly quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bella: I hate my life. You appear to hate yours as well so I'm going to invade this fanfic.
> 
> Me: GO AWAY! I don't hate my life, I'm just exhausted by it at the moment. 
> 
> Russia: You called?
> 
> Bella: I'm going, I'm going, I'm going. 
> 
> Me: *Looks at Russia* You do know that I was mentally summoning an angel, right?
> 
> Russia: Don't tell anyone.


	15. Gold

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Greg feels very lucky. (Not in the way you think, you pervs!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happier? I hope?

Greg is dead on his feet. Not only has the day been emotionally exhausting, he is physically exhausted from being up for an absurd amount of hours. So, he doesn’t protest as much when Mycroft grabs him by the arm when he and John arrive (for the second time, he realizes) at Sherlock’s hospital room. He allows himself to be essentially walked to the car, and collapses against Mycroft as soon as they are both inside of it.  
“I appreciate you being by my brother’s bedside as he slept, but John is with him now. And I do not want to know how you felt when I collapsed, being already vaguely able to imagine,” Mycroft says quietly.  
“Don’t worry, I won’t collapse on you,” Greg says. He straightens and turns towards Mycroft, as his comment makes him think of something. “How long has it been since you ate?” he asks.  
Mycroft looks down for a moment, and says, “Not since last night.”  
Greg nods, and says, “That’s understandable, considering. But we’ll both eat something, and then sleep. We both need it, anyway.” Crisis averted, as Greg as skillfully (he hopes) maneuvered Mycroft into eating something before he tries to stop doing so, and hopefully they are both too tired for Mycroft to start counting calories if he does end up having even a mild episode. Greg worries about his husband, as he knows Mycroft does about him, and he knows that something like Sherlock’s attempted suicide is enough to set him off. Hell, he can feel the urge to go back to his old haunts, but he crushes them, focusing instead on staying awake long enough to make food, even if this time ‘cooking’ means reheating leftovers.  
“You do not need to worry about me Greg. I promise,” Mycroft says, and Greg nods before leaning into his husband’s shoulder.  
“I do anyway. I really, really don’t want to lose you,” he says, and he can feel Mycroft shift under his head, as they both press tighter against each other. He doesn’t. It’s not only the Holmeses who form unhealthily tight attachments. Maybe what he and Mycroft have doesn’t reach the level of freaky symbiosis that John and Sherlock do, but Mycroft has still become a huge part of Greg’s identity. Huge enough, anyway, that if he died, Greg might find himself in the place John had been, cut adrift without even the knowledge of land.  
Mycroft grabs one of Greg’s hands in his own, and this tells him more than any words, because Mycroft is not the most physically affectionate person in the world, unless they are somewhere where they are completely alone, which the car, as there is a driver, does not count as.  
“I promise I won’t go drinking, okay?” he says, and Mycroft nods, but Greg can feel his shudder a bit against him, and that’s when he realizes how drained Mycroft must be. From his (extensive) experience with Holmes, he knows that they feel much more than even they give themselves credit for. In fact, one could even argue that they feel too much, and Mycroft, despite his title of Ice Man, has even less ability to deal with his emotions, or their depth, than his little brother. Coupled with the residual guilt from Sherlock’s Fall, and John’s subsequent spiral into depression, it is understandable that the ginger is feeling emotionally drained.  
“Good,” Mycroft whispers. “I’ll eat.”  
“Good,” Greg answers.  
There is a silent, a good silence, and Greg thinks about how lucky he is, to have met the man he is currently leaning against. In a world of seven billion people, most of whom were probably better something than he was, and in a country of 53 million, Mycroft had chosen him, of all people, to love. And that was a gift worth more than all the gold in the world, in Greg’s opinion. Had chosen the divorced, recovering alcoholic Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. And maybe Greg is selfish, but he was going to cling to the happiness that Mycroft gives and not let it go. Because who he was before he met Mycroft, even after he met Sherlock, was not someone he wants to be again. Because even the memories hurt, really.  
Greg minutely shakes his head, clearing his head of his quickly darkening thoughts, and smiles. Of everything, the final truth is that Mycroft has chosen him. And that... that is the most wonderful thing in the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts.  
> Also, not to shamelessly toot my own horn or anything, but if you're in the avengers fandom, go read my fic in that fandom. It's short, and angsty, so y'alls will probably love it.


	16. Not Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blog post by Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new method of story telling.

**The Blog Of Dr. John H. Watson**

_Not Dead. Also, On Truths_

I’m not dead. That is the truth. The truth... the truth is good. It hurts, sometimes, but unlike lies it never means to. As you have likely realized, unless you have the intellect of a wallrat, it is Sherlock writing, not John. And I’m not dead. And Mary is not well. She... to put it kindly, she was delusional, and in that delusion manipulated me to believe that John hated me, and manipulated John to believe that I was nothing more than a figment of his grief-addled mind. She is now where she can no longer hurt anyone else. Not dead, obviously, but in a psychiatric ward. I will not reveal which one, as I know how the internet functions. This little synopsis of John’s ex’s mental health issues lead up to this statement: two days ago, I attempted suicide by consuming an entire bottle of zolpidem pills, commonly known as ambien. Lestrade found me, and dialed 999, saving my life. John would have gone with the ambulance, but Mary held him back, and then attempted to convince him that he had just hallucinated seeing me carried by him on a stretcher. I have never been the most... mentally stable of people. For a few weeks before I attempted suicide, I developed the habit of referring to myself in the third person neuter. I have suffered from depression my entire adult life, and a series of events that happened soon after I revealed my continued residence among the living to John caused that depression to rear its very ugly head. I have always been able to push these emotions away, pretend that I deleted it, but hyperthymesia can’t be cured, and it is in fact impossible to forget if you remember everything. Because that is the truth. My brother and I, we both remember every moment of every day since puberty, and we both dealt with it differently. I turned on the world, and closed it out. I know that I mock John’s narratives on this site, but I would like to set some matters straight. Yes, Moriarty is real. He was... possibly the most despicable human being to exist, besides possibly Joseph Stalin. I (wrongly) viewed our fight as a game, at first, though certain events caused me to change my mind. But sadly, I was too late. By then, Moriarty had already planned his fairy tale, and I was the villain. I had to die. One life for three, mathematically it makes sense, doesn’t it? I would fake my death, and destroy Moriarty’s legacy, and by doing so save the lives of the people I cared for. Of course I learned that real life, and people, are far from that simple. Or that easy. I will not go into detail on what happened during the three years I was away, but let us just say that three years was far longer than I thought it would take. When Mycroft told me that John had attempted suicide, I was half way across the world in Australia, and when I got the message it was five hours after the fact. I only learned... I only learned that he still lived a few weeks after. I stopped eating, or sleeping, because that just took time away from my mission. When I first returned, I had not slept in over two weeks. I was running on empty and I crashed, when I woke up one morning to find that John seemed to have stopped realizing I was there. I still do not understand why I did not see Mary’s madness. I think that I wanted John to move on from me, so I immediately placed anyone he felt for on a pedestal. I still do not understand why I did not see the effects my fall would have, outside the numerical benefits of 3>1\. I know that I am emotionally constipated. I know that I really really need help of some kind. And I guess... I suppose that makes sense. I want to be better. I want to be better for John’s sake. Maybe someday I’ll even do it for myself. But for now, doing it for John, and Greg and Mrs. Hudson, and yes (though I shudder to admit it) even Mycroft is the closest thing I can come to. I have read the comments all you have written, while I was dead. Thank you for supporting John. I don’t know... I don’t know what would have happened if he had died. Nothing good, I think. I might... I might have even taken Moriarty’s place. And, I couldn’t risk that. Losing him, I mean. I value him over my mind. And, I also value him over my life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thinking of doing something similar for the next chapter.


	17. Comments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Comments on Sherlock's post.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I apologize for the long absence.  
> There are... things going on in RL that some of you know that have made it impossible for me to concentrate on anything.  
> As a clue, I currently feel like I'm being repeatedly punched in the chest. 
> 
> Anyway, this is a happier chapter? UrpleCullen is inspired by Tara Gilesby, author of My Immortal.  
> Also, **bolded underlined** text means the person has an account, **bolded** means they're anon.

**Comment(s) 193**

  **John H. Watson:** Sherlock... wow. You definitely write better than I ever did. And it’s... it’s mind boggling that you can be this open about this so soon. It took me a better part of a month to write about the attempt you mentioned, and it’s been three days. I’m not going to get mad at you for guessing my password, I suppose runyoucleverbastard (no, that’s not my password anymore, internet) was kind of obvious, wasn’t it? I’m so sorry that you felt like you needed to sacrifice yourself for me, couldn’t of you taken me along? But I get why you didn’t, people have a habit of underestimating me. I’m so sorry that I believed Mary, I should have believed you. But I think that I had spent so much time waiting for my miracle that when it finally happened, I couldn’t believe it. I couldn’t believe that you actually returned to me, and Mary wasn’t helping. To clarify a bit on that point, Mary basically forgot the fact that Sherlock was there, except when she was talking to him. Which is terrifying from a personal standpoint and utterly fascinating from a medical standpoint. (See, Sherlock, you’re rubbing off on me already) For those of you who might ask, no, we’re not going to be going on cases anytime soon. I don’t think either of us are prepared to deal with it. Especially not with two specific workers at the NSY who really should have been suspended after the fall, but considering that the Yard spends a good part of its time bollocksing things up, not totally surprising. Sherlock and I are going to be entering therapy soon. Not naming anyone, seriously, I decided that was a bad idea when one of my therapists ended up with a stalker because of me (Ah, the perks of internet fame, that and very... odd porn made about oneself... moving on). Life has a terrible sense of humour, the pills Sherlock used were the pills I very nearly used of myself. Because here’s the thing. Both Sherlock and I aren’t well. I’m not too sure about Sherlock’s diagnosis, but I know personally that I am severely depressed (surprise!) with a psychosomatic limp to boot (and before you ask, other parts of the internet, yes, it’s gone now, which isn’t surprising considering Sherlock’s you know, Sherlock), and I do need help. Hence the therapy. It surprised me, when Sherlock told me he wanted to voluntarily get help. Though it’s not completely surprising that he’s insisting on having the same therapist as me. Because once a relationship reaches the level of weird symbiosis (Greg’s words) that ours has, I guess even sharing things like therapists is normal. Take that as you will, Internets. I wish you good night. Or good morning. Or good middle of the bloody day. Anyway, whatever time it is when you see this, have a good whatever the time is.

  **I Knew It!:** I TOLD YOU INTERNET! See, Sherlock’s not dead. Thank the lord, I don’t think we would have been able to deal with the feels if John died as well. That sounds... insensitive, doesn’t it? Sorry boys, shouldn’t have said that. But seriously guys, you are both so awesome that I wish I wasn’t so bloody far away... actually probably a good thing or I’d be stalking you, which is a bad thing? It’s really brave, of you Sherlock to say all of this.

  **UrpleCullen:** wut i dont get is y mary even wanted jon in da 1st plase bcuz she mustve nown he wuz sad. and every1 noes that sad peple mak odder peple sad when dey talk 2 them. so i just tink is kind of stepid 4 jon n sherlok even posted dis bcuz no1 wants 2 here abut their sad life. they is lik, ‘omg, we so sadz, every1 be sad wif uz’ n im lik no wey, cuz i don do sad. omg I LUV U JOHN PLEZ MARY ME c wut i did der? ‘mary’ nut ‘marry’. im so smart, rnt i?

  **John H. Watson:** ((Quoting _**UrpleCullen:** wut i dont get is y mary even wanted jon in da 1st plase bcuz she mustve nown he wuz sad. and every1 noes that sad peple mak odder peple sad when dey talk 2 them. so i just itnk is kind of stepid 4 jon n sherlok even posted dis bcuz n1 wants 2 here abut their sad life. they is lik, ‘omg, we so sadz, every1 be sad wif uz’ n im lik no wey, cuz don do sad. omg I LUV U JOHN PLEZ MARY ME c wut i did der? ‘mary’ nut ‘marry’. im so smart, rnt i?_ )) I wonder sometimes, whether or not this person is in fact serious, or a troll. Now, normally I would have deleted the comment, and possibly allowed Sherlock to post a scathing remark relating to the general intelligence of the internet, but by the time I realized that this comment had been posted, it had sparked an extremely interesting discussion about mental illness. Which is both interesting and terrifying, because I’m vaguely suspicious that all we’ve been doing is feeding a troll... of course, trolls don’t usually expect intelligent conversation. Also, “UrpleCullen” that is not in the least an intelligent pun. And if you are real, I fear that you do not exist in the real world.

  **Triss Can’t Come Up With Anything Funny For a Screen Name:** ((Quoting _**UrpleCullen:** wut i dont get is y mary even wanted jon in da 1st plase bcuz she mustve nown he wuz sad. and every1 noes that sad peple mak odder peple sad when dey talk 2 them. so i just itnk is kind of stepid 4 jon n sherlok even posted dis bcuz n1 wants 2 here abut their sad life. they is lik, ‘omg, we so sadz, every1 be sad wif uz’ n im lik no wey, cuz don do sad. omg I LUV U JOHN PLEZ MARY ME c wut i did der? ‘mary’ nut ‘marry’. im so smart, rnt i?_ )) I seriously hope this person is kidding. I’ve suffered from depression myself for an ungodly amount of years, and the fact that you’re equating it to an infectious disease (I think... seriously I had to go to My Immortal to translate. I can feel my brain cells whimper even in memory) is frankly disgusting. And Sherlock and John did not post this to make other people join in some sort of pity party, they posted because they felt like we, as their readers deserved the truth. (Did you even like, read the post? At all? Or did you just skim it to find trolling material) Kudos to them for being awesome. And may you be fed burnt toast, oh hopefully-a-troll.

  **OctarineWitch:**  ((Quoting _**Triss:** And Sherlock and John did not post this to make other people join in some sort of pity party, they posted because they felt like we, as their readers deserved the truth. (Did you even like, read the post? At all? Or did you just skim it to find trolling material) Kudos to them for being awesome. And may you be fed burnt toast, oh hopefully-a-troll._ ))This is what saddens me about the internet. I’m 12, at the moment (blah blah blah, not supposed to be on here blah blah blah, I’m older mentally trust me on this one), and I often find people like this online who claim that they are in their early twenties. Either they are creepy old men trying to seem cool (in which ew) or they sincerely believe what they’re saying. Or they’re trolls. Here’s the thing. Talking about your problems is not lame. In fact, this is the very reason why I spent hours of my time convincing my parents I need therapy. Because talking to people is good. You, Urple, are a judgmental coward. Go take your misspelling self somewhere else.

 IBungledABurgle: ((Quoting _**Triss:** I seriously hope this person is kidding. I’ve suffered from depression myself for an ungodly amount of years, and the fact that you’re equating it to an infectiousdisease (I think... seriously I had to go to My Immortal to translate. I can feel my brain cells whimper even in memory) is frankly disgusting._ )) 1) You are braver than I for being willing to expose yourself to Tara’s words more than once. Ugh. 2) I personally don’t have depression, but my boyfriend does, and Urple is basically making his pain illegitimate in like, three terrible sentences. Which officially means that that particular Troll is made of suck :( 3) SHERLOCK AND JOHN ARE AWESOME. Seriously. And they deserve all the happiness and the world and I know I’m speaking from privilege here, but WHY MUST YOU DEAL WITH SUCH SUCK. YOU DO NOT DESERVE IT.

  **(Click to see more comments in this threat) **

  
**Can’t Be Bothered To Sign Up:** I believe that I am speaking for John as well when I say that the amount of comments posted in under twelve hours is mildly staggering. Thank you all for your support (that is from John, I don’t your support, I have John’s), and here is what I have deduced about “UrpleCullen” from their other posts. They are in fact fourteen years of age (apologies to others of her age) and is completely serious in her beliefs. Her name is Alenna Llih, and she has been raised fully isolated from the rest of the world, and her only knowledge of the “real world” comes from Conservapedia, and she believes that what she says is true. This is why I fear for humanity. But thank you, to the rest of you. -SH

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	18. Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AA meeting. Sort of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The reason I didn't really make this AA is because I doubt Greg would be willing to give himself over to a higher power (part of the AA steps).   
> This one's short, but because I don't have as much time, as term is ending in a few days and OMYGOD LATIN TEST.

Greg lets out a sigh, and sucks in a deep breath. This is the first time he’s shared at a meeting for a while. Since the first time he came, actually, and Thet asked him to share, as he did to all new-comers. But he’s made his decision. He needs to talk about this, about Sherlock’s attempted suicide, to people who he knows he can trust.   
This particular group is jokingly called AA by those attending, but in all honesty it lacks one huge, essential part of AA. Most of the people there are atheists and agnostics, and the entire meeting is made up of sharing. From what Mycroft has told him, it’s very similar to his support group, except his meets in a state of the art facility and this group is in an abandoned theater. Not that Greg minds much. He certainly didn’t start attending these meetings for the decor.   
Thet, who is possibly a mind reader, realizes his intent and calls on him before Greg even makes a noise. Concentrating on keeping his breathing even, the DI makes his way up to the makeshift podium made out of piled milkcrates, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. This is the reason why he doesn’t like sharing. Being the center of attention is something he hates, and he’s always feared that sharing would be like giving a press conference. But he needs to get this off his chest, needs to share it with people he can trust not to judge him.   
He could have feasibly shared from his seat, one of many folding chairs three rows back and two from the left on the right side, but he feels that he will only be able to do this if something is between him and the rest of the group.   
Greg’s behind the podium now. He opens his mouth, and after the obligatory “Hi, my name is Greg and I’m an alcoholic” the words start spilling out of him, almost of their own accord. “My husband’s little brother is like a son to me. Don’t ask how that ended up, he sort of adopted me as he father figure without me, or him, possibly, even realizing that it had happened. Anyway, he tried to kill himself a few days ago. Actually, I considered not coming here to try to stay with him, as he’s only just left the hospital under the supervision of his boyfriend, but my partner convinced me that I should come. And so here I am, and I’m going to mind vomit all my problems at you all, apparently.” He sighs, and runs a hand through his hair, before continuing, “I found him. And since I already nearly lost him once, really did lose him for a little while, I couldn’t believe... I couldn’t believe that his boyfriend had let him do this. But here’s the thing. His boyfriend’s ex girlfriend was... delusional. She convinced him that his boyfriend did not love him, didn’t even consider her a worthy human being. I thought a lot, while waiting for him to wake up, and I’m really grateful that I decided to come here, because it helps. A lot.” He smiles, and walks back to his seat, feeling completely drained.   
“Thank you Greg, for sharing your pain,” Thet says, and Greg nods mutely, before the next person, Khristopher, starts his share and he has someone else’s problems to concentrate on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a note to the universe:  
> Even if you're a homophobic, don't hack onto someone's email and tell their girlfriend that they're breaking up with her. It really, really hurts, and I really want you to die in a fire.   
> Also, who can catch the references from the last chapter?


	19. ΘΣ

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First therapy session.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup, that title is supposed to be in Greek letters.

Is this the number belonging to Sherlock Holmes?

Doctor Sigma?

I’ll take that as a yes. You didn’t come to the first session you signed up for.

Right...

John’s session is over, you wouldn’t mind coming over now, would you? I’m free.

Alright. I was busy.

With?

An experiment involving a human corpse.

Really? What were you trying to figure out?

Is this genuine interest or feigned interest because of your job?

Genuine. Before I decided to become a psyche, I wanted to be a mortician.

Why the change?

Live brains seemed more interesting than dead ones.

Out of context that sounds like you are confessing to a murder Sigma.

It does, doesn’t it? What was your experiment?

What happens when you run high voltages of electricity through cadavers of old people.

Are you attempting to replicate Dr. Frankenstein?

No, of course not. Reanimation is impossible.

Though not ressurection.

Metaphorically, that is the truth.

Metaphorically?

Yes.

Care to elaborate?

No.

How far are you from my office?

I’m in the lift. Who had the genius idea of putting you on the nineteenth floor?

Not me, that’s for sure. Fear of heights?

Negative associations.

Really?

Yes.

Once again, would you like to elaborate on that point?

No.

It relates to the Fall, doesn’t it?

You read the newspapers, I take it?

Not very often, but yes. Also John’s blog.

Ah... so you saw my post?

Yes.

Oh.

I know you’re in the hallway outside my office.

Yes.

Why don’t you come in?

Because I prefer to text.

You like not being able to see my face.  
...  
Yes.

You think it’s easier, because it’s harder for you to deduce my reactions.

Yes.

You’re not the only one who can read people. It’s my job, you know.

My prior experience with psychologists suggests otherwise.

You’ve had terrible luck then. Come in.

Alright.

Sherlock slips his phone into his pocket, opens the door to Dr. Sigma’s office and looks around. It was completely different from the offices of the myriad psychologists that his parents (and later Mycroft) had forced him to visit. Instead of the usual over-display of diplomas, the only picture on the wall is of a girl (fourteen, obsessed with the internet, into D&D and Star Trek) who Sherlock assumes is his daughter, though he will be careful not to mention it in case that was the one thing he always got wrong. He knows gets things wrong. Does not mean he likes to admit it.  
He stands by the chair obviously meant for him, instead of sitting in it, and stares out of the open window. The view from inside an office is far less sheer than from a roof, which makes sense. He tempted to walk to the window and peer out, see whether or not he can see the ground from it.  
Shaking his head to rid himself of these morbid thoughts, Sherlock turns towards Dr. Sigma. First thing he notices is that the man is wearing Converse, completely out of place with the rest of his outfit, corduroy trousers, a blue and white striped button down and a tie with what looks like the various flags of different countries. He raises an eyebrow and says, “From my own personal experience, isn’t there a dress code for mental health professionals?”  
Dr. Sigma grins, obviously stifling a laugh. “God, you make me sound like an old man. Come on, sit,” he says, and Sherlock is surprised to hear a distinctly French accent. He sits on the edge of the chair, still not entirely sure he should be doing this, despite John’s assurances that he is in fact quite a good therapist. “I wear Converse because I like them. And I’m a damn good therapist, according to other people, so they let me wear them because it doesn’t make me any worse.”  
Sherlock nods. “You’re French?” he asks, genuinely curious. “Why are you working in London?”  
The doctor looks affronted for a moment, before laughing. “I’m Canadian, actually, born and bred in Montreal. Sadly, it’s usually only those of us from either country who can actually tell the difference.”  
Damn, he does always get one thing wrong, and from what he remembers from history books, this particular mistake is considered by some to be on the level of calling a Scotsman English. “Thank you for not punching me,” he says, deciding to go for a weak attempt at humor instead of accidentally offending the doctor more.  
“Why would I?” Dr. Sigma looks genuinely shocked. “Because you guessed wrongly as to where I’m from? The fact that you noticed the accent at all is an achievement, actually, usually people think I’m American, which, to be honest, is an even bigger insult than being called French. To me, anyway. Is that how people usually react to your deduction, punching you?”  
Sherlock decides that perhaps honesty would be the best here. He did, after all, ask for therapy. “Yes. Though not always physically.”  
“But you say them anyway?” the doctor asks, genuine curiosity in his expression.  
“I pretended like I didn’t care, what other people thought about me. Because... why should I? No one cared what I thought, and it got to a point where I was only ever heard when I spoke too loud, or did something considered bad. No one noticed me, except when I messed up, or said something wrong. And I don’t like being invisible.” Sherlock panics for a second, wishing he hadn’t said so much, worried that this doctor will join the ever growing ranks of people who dismiss him as pathetic and give him yet another pill prescription despite his history of drug abuse, and the fact that this is not the first time he’s tried to kill himself with pills.  
His fears vanish when he realizes that the doctor is looking at him not with pity, or disgust or confusion but genuine understanding, and what appears to be empathy. “And sometimes the cost for being visible can be very high, can it?” The doctor sighs, but not at Sherlock, or at least he doesn’t think so. Dr. Sigma seems to be doing a sigh at the world in general, and that confuses Sherlock. “You and John are both broken, and it’s going to take a while for you to be fixed. Are you willing to come week after week and go through all the crap that life has slung at you?” he asks.  
Sherlock gulps, can feel his Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “Yes, but also no” he finally says after a few heartbeats. After all, isn’t that the most important part of all of this? The truth?  
Dr. Sigma nods, and pushes a stray bit of hair behind his ear, an action that Sherlock assumes is a nervous tic. “Well then, allons-y,” he says, and Sherlock feels relief flood through him. Maybe this therapy thing won’t be so bad after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You see?


	20. Alienor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mad men await.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my reviewers for this lovely idea.  
> 13.

The Doctor watches Sherlock leave his office, a feeling of guilt gnawing at his hearts. He had tried to get here earlier, to try to save both John and Sherlock from dealing with this mess, but the TARDIS, that wonderful, wise old girl, had decided that it would be better in the long run for the both of them if he showed up three years after the fact. So now he is playing the role of therapist to both of them, using his own pain to help them work through theirs. Which is harder than he thought it would be. Today he spoke to both John and Sherlock, and he believes that this will take time. Time he seems to be increasingly running out of, lately.  
He sighs, and gets up from his chair, walking over to the supply closet in the corner of his office. This is where the TARDIS is parked, and where he lives. No one even knows he’s here, so the fact that John discovered him at all a coincidence likely orchestrated by the time winds, or whatever it is that keeps history going in one general direction. She’s still the same, even though he’s on his thirteenth face now. It’s tall and gangly, like many of his later ones, and he’s not ginger, but that’s alright, because he likes his hair as it is. It’s fascinating that Sherlock did not comment on it, as it’s white enough to be considered blue, though physically he looks in his mid thirties by human standards. Then again, who knows what the man has seen, throughout his short life? From what he’s seen in the mirror, he’s not remarkably handsome. Besides the hair, his only other interesting feature is his eyes, which are blue but flecked with grey. He guesses that these signs of age come from how he ended up with this new body, sacrificing one of his life spans to save a life.  
The Doctor opens the door, and immediately bursts out laughing when he sees Alienor hanging from a harness upside down, suspended a few inches from the blue and green flecked ceiling of the consol. “I thought you’d already repaired the map-thingy?” he asks, cupping his hands near his mouth like a blowhorn more for comical effect than an actual need. He gestures vaguely to the section of the now sprawling central column that Alienor is tinkering with, her tail helping her keep her rather precarious balance, considering she has somehow suspended herself from two of the blue things that look like 18th century lightbulbs that the TARDIS for some reason decided to give itself the last time it remodeled, and those things have a nasty habit of falling, shattering, than magically regrowing in a different spot.  
“The three dimensional GPS, not the map-thingy doctor,” the Wngrys says, correcting, as she always does, his tendency to refer to things in vague terms. “And it’s broken because I forgot to feed in the correct coordinates for Wngrt when I went to visit my sibling and it got confused, so I whacked it a few times and that didn’t work, so I manually piloted back to this here and now and so now I’m trying to fix the circuit I fried by feeding it bad information by refeeding it the good coordinates, with the code to late 20th century computer systems as a bribe.”  
Alienor had picked up the GPS at a flea market on the planet of Chikyuu, the ninth planet in the Avaria solar system, and had then spent a good part of a Wngrt day (3.1 Earth ones) painstakingly installing it into the console. It was old, and had developed sentience at some point in the last century, so fried itself every time someone put wrong information into it. Out of annoyance, apparently, because it knows all the coordinates but cannot actually input them into itself, and getting incorrect information is apparently equivalent in sentient GPSs to a human being whacked repeatedly with a stick... or something like that, if he understands the binary correctly.  
He runs a mental calculation, and makes excited flailing motions. “We’re caught up!” he says excitedly, and Alienor shakes her head at him, but he can see that she’s smiling despite the fact that her facial muscles haven’t moved. Wngrt eyes are far more expressive than Time Lord ones, and so she usually only uses her facial muscles when eating, speaking, or attempting to act human.  
“Brilliant, Doctor, now we’ve existed for the exact same amount of time,” she says, and the Doctor is once again reminded of the fact that despite the fact that she looks like a human teenager, she is over one thousand, just as he is. Despite the fact that her species is technically an evolved form of the human race, their method of reproduction, essentially a multi-cellular version of mitosis, somehow gives them a ridiculously long life span and the physical aspects of human teenagers. The tails are apparently an accident because of some genetic engineering gone wrong, but it seems to have benefited the race, so he doesn’t plan on ‘correcting’ that particular continuity error.  
He grins at her. “Yup,” he says, as she whacks the GPS with a monkey wrench she picked up in mid 21st century America, before giving up and slipping out of the harness, the bright green coat spreading out behind her like wings as she flips over.  
“Should be fine. I know you got an appointment next week, but you did promise to bring me to pre-Surakian Vulcan,” she says, and the Doctor sighs.  
“Are you sure you want to go back there? The emotional feedback might just overwhelm your shields” he says, worried.  
She grins at him. “I’m an empathic from a race of projectors, I’ll be fine,” she says, before running up to the control column. The Doctor follows behind her, and mentally tells the TARDIS to bring him to a week from now after an Earth week’s worth of time has passed. This is perfect. Now he only needs to fix John and Sherlock enough in the slowly shrinking pocket of time he possesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not planning on adding Doctor Who as a tag, or the Doctor as a character. Because that would totally ruin the surprise :)


	21. Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For once, John wakes up first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating in a while, first I was in an Internet dead zone and then AO3 crashed temporily (I STILL LOVE YOU AO3 DON'T WORRY)

John is surprised, when Sherlock crawls into bed with him, apparently fully closed. Any doubts about his motives are dispelled when the detective immediately falls asleep. John had given Dr. Sigma Sherlock’s phone number, and the session had gone on far longer than either he or Sherlock had expected. And now, the younger man was understandably exhausted, as he was. Apparently they both had rather large mountains of shit to work through. Which was oddly comforting to John, to know that perhaps Sherlock wasn’t this untenable god-being, and that he was human, too, as John had always insisted.   
Despite how easily Sherlock fell asleep, John knows that he himself will likely not get any rest until he is certain that the detective will not wake up from a nightmare. His other motivation is that he does not want to experience the unpleasant side effects of sleep either, but casting his staying awake in a more noble light allows him to mental space to think.   
It doesn’t surprise him that Sherlock was willing to share so much with Dr. Sigma, at least, from what Sherlock told him, because through his own session with the doctor, he seemed to have genuine concern for his patients, unlike so many other therapists who only care about the money at the end of the session, and the personal satisfaction at “fixing” “broken” people.  
He sighs, and curls himself closer to the taller man, hearing the unmistakable sound of a heartbeat. Sherlock usually isn’t the type to seek physical closeness, but considering the events of the past few days, John is grateful to have a very tangible reminder of how alive his flatmate truly is, even if the behavior is unusual.   
The blog post had surprised him. For a man who, before the Fall, had insisted that John not share any of his failed cases, the openness he displayed when discussing his attempted suicide was strange in the most wonderful sense of the word. It was almost as if Sherlock was tired of pretending. He was still the brilliant mad man that John had shot Jeff Hope for the first night they met, but he was different, as if he had slowly begun believing that perhaps the people closest to him did not need to be constantly tested, to see how far Sherlock had to go before they left.   
To over use a metaphor, Sherlock was like a thunderstorm, wild, raging, but also healing, and necessary. John had been boring, blank, an unobtrusively normal person before he met Sherlock, and after, when Sherlock fell, there were so many holes in his sense of identity that he nearly lost himself, those first few years. He knows now that even if Sherlock had really died, Mary could never have stayed. Because John and Sherlock were still John-and-Sherlock, bound together in ways going deeper than even John understands.   
Dr. Sigma had been interesting. He hadn’t been what John expected in a therapist, an old man in a young body, crazy in a way that seemed more like a form of protection than anything else. But he was good. John had been surprised at how good.   
Sherlock shifts in his sleep, and John smiles, before turning towards him, and he feels himself fall asleep, slowly and then all at once. Sherlock needed him, and John needed Sherlock. For once, something in life was simple. Now he just needed to simplify all the rest of it.   
He dreams of a strange man, vaguely familiar yet so alone, and also his face, and Sherlock’s, changed by time and age, and a sense of peace and wonder, and also of adventure.   
John wakes up with Sherlock curled around him, awake first for once, and has the distinct image of a blue police box from the fifties. A few seconds later the dream is gone, and he is left feeling oddly empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, K, for a wonderful eight months.  
> It was fun. I hope you find someone to love, someone to care for.  
> I wish you all the luck in the world.


	22. Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I will follow you into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, so sorry for not updating sooner.  
> RL has sucked (I've been dumped, and had a massive amount of tests, all in the same span of time) but now things are much better (I'm in therapy everyone! THIS IS FANTASTIC. Yes, that is how weird I am, I think therapy is brilliant) so that's good.

Sherlock wakes up and John is watching him, propped up on an elbow. “Good morning,” he says, before stretching and sitting up.

“How long have I been asleep?” Sherlock asks. He sits up, and pulls himself into a loose cousin of the fetal position.

“About, ten hours maybe? It was ten when we got in, and it’s eight in the morning,” John says, and Sherlock is surprised. That long? Apparently heaping all of his many woes onto another person was more tiring than he thought it would be.

Sherlock thinks of something, and uncurls, turning towards John. “Has Dr. Sigma contacted you about the bill?” he asks, wondering whether or not the fact that apparently he had stayed in the session longer than the allotted hour more end up costing more to John, who had insisted on paying for the sessions.

John nods, and leans into Sherlock’s side, almost unconsciously, and Sherlock lets him. “Yeah, he did. But weirdly enough, I checked the time stamp, and he sent it a few minutes before we met. Must’ve been an error.”

Sherlock nods, and says, “Perhaps he just decided to bill us before.”

John nods, not looking entirely convinced, before stretching again and getting up. “Don’t know about you, but I need food,” he says.

Sherlock snorts, but rolls off the bed, making a point of landing on the floor with exaggerated motions, before picking himself up and grinning as John rolls his eyes at him.

“You are absolutely insane,” John says, shaking his head.

Words that would have hurt, though he wouldn’t have said it, had they come from anybody else, but from John he can hear the affection. So, he smiles, and John grins back. “And yet you still love me,” Sherlock says, in an almost reverent manner.

John pulls Sherlock into a hug, one that he probably would have rejected even two weeks before, and says, “Of course I love you,” he says. There are probably more words that he wants to say, in fact, Sherlock knows he wants to say more, but Sherlock interrupts him by kissing him. It’s messy, not at all arousing, but it feels right, and when they pull away almost at the same time, they are both smiling. John turns to go downstairs to the kitchen, and Sherlock follows him, for the first time in a long time being kissed not leaving an uncomfortable feeling on his mouth. Instead, he feels an unfamiliar warm feeling in his chest.

About ten minutes later, Sherlock is sitting at the kitchen table, still oddly clean after only a few days of Mary’s absence, and John is cooking what looks like eggs in a frying pan that he certainly did not have before Sherlock Fell.

“Did Mary get you that?” he asks, desperately wanting to know, but also not wanting to know.

John turns, “No. I got that for myself, a little while after you... after you left,” the possibly unconscious correction makes Sherlock internally wince, but before he can say something, anything to make John look not as depressed as he does in the moment, the doctor continues speaking, “For a few months, I tried a large amount of things to try... to try to forget. It didn’t work, obviously, but I taught myself how to cook relatively simple things that I never really learned to cook because I always had access to take out, or limited options like I did in the military.”

Sherlock swallows thickly, before saying quietly, “I didn’t... I didn’t want you to get hurt.”

John is strangely calm, and Sherlock fears that this is the anger that Sherlock has been expecting since he returned. “I know,” he says, but he’s still blank, “but you did. I felt like... I felt like you’d shoved yourself into me, become part of my identity and then ripped it away over something petty like your reputation. Of course, then I learned through digging while trying to clear your name that you did it to save my life. Which, obviously, didn’t help me at all. So, yes, I tried to kill myself, those were the pills you found, isn’t that bloody ironic?” John’s voice is a bit louder now, and Sherlock can see anger but also the remembered depression, and a desperation that Sherlock doesn’t completely understand, so he forces himself to listen to John, and forces himself to understand. “Mary... Mary helped. She helped in the way a day’s rain helps a desert grow again, only a little bit and not at all enough. You were everything, and then you took it away, and then you come back and I was so relieved,” John turns, automatically moving the breakfast from the pan to a plate before turning back to Sherlock, “and then I thought you weren’t real and then you tried to kill yourself and I love you so much but I don’t know if I’ll survive you doing that again.”

This is better than Sherlock had hoped for, and the urge to run away and curl into a tiny ball for the rest of eternity lessens. “I was empty. While I was dead, I mean. I was empty. And then I came back and you didn’t hate me, but then you seemed to forget and it hurt so much, and then I tried... well, you know what I tried and now I’m here, and I don’t know if I could ever leave willingly again.”

John nods, and pulls Sherlock into another hug, this one bone-breakingly tight, and he says, “I am never letting you go, ever,” he pulls away, and says, tone completely serious, “Even if you think I’ll be harmed by coming with you, always let me follow you. I want you to understand one thing Sherlock, if it’s the only thing you remember, remember it. I will follow you into the depths of hell, if I have to. I will follow you, wherever you may go, and I will pull you out. I promise you this.”

Sherlock nods. “I will never leave you again,” he says. “On my own mind, I will never willingly leave you again.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit angsty, this one.


	23. Familiar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A madman meets some old friends behind the time they were born.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not updating, break is soon and the teachers have been giving us even more homework.

The Doctor bashes his head against the wall of the console in frustration. “Five months, five ruddy months, I only have five months. How is this taking so long? I only have five months left and I need them to help me find the sonic. I need the sonic. I know I bloody need the sonic but I don’t know why. And it’s lost, and the only thing I have is a scrap of paper from a book that shouldn’t even exist, what with it being actually belonging to John Watson and not Sir Doyle.”

He finishes his rant and calms a little, now pacing frantically around the circular room. It had been three months since he had started being John and Sherlock’s psychologist, and that was in no way enough time for them to be able to deal with... well with everything, the woes and the joys, that came with being his companion, even for a short time. And now the time he had was shrinking further, as the numbers he saw in his brain ticked down only slightly faster than his heartbeat.

Alienor, obviously concerned, jumped down from where she had been crouching and walks over to him, putting a small hand on his back. “You’ll do it. And even after they come with us, you can still do it. Just because they’ll know who you are, doesn’t mean they won’t trust you.”

The Doctor looks over at the Wgrn, sighing. “If... no, when they learn of what I’ve done, of what I am still willing to do, what will they think? Will they ever trust me again?”

Alienor sighs, and says, “They trusted you without even knowing who you really were, didn’t they? Sherlock, at least, must know that you are not completely who you say you are. It will be alright Doctor. It will all be alright. We will find the sonic, and you’ll be able to go wherever it is that blasted clock in your head is leading you.”

The Doctor smiles a little, before nodding. “Thank you, Ali, I needed that.”

Alienor returns the smile before smacking the Doctor on the back of the head. “Come on then, we need to go back in time. There’s an old friend of mine I think you should talk to”

The Doctor’s eyes light up, and he rushes to the main controls. “What are the coordinates?”

Two hands push his away, and she says, “I’m driving. I’d rather not be late.”

He nods, understanding. He does have a tendency of doing that, of being late. It was being late that led to all of this, after all. And it was being late that led to most of the grief in his life. Which is why he was going to be, had to be on time for when the clock in his head turns to zero.

He’s woken from his thoughts at the familiar sound of the TARDIS landing, and he smiles when he realizes that Alienor must have purposely left the breaks on. She doesn’t usually do that.

She smiles slightly at him, before opening the doors. The Doctor starts when he recognizes where they are. Victorian London. “I can’t come here, I came here too much as my eleventh self.”

He had learned the hard way what happened with he crossed paths with other faces. In fact, this is what had caused him to change from his twelfth face to this one. He still remembers what happened then, how he had somehow ended up on the opposite side of a war to his ninth self. He remembers that war, fought soon after the destruction of Gallifrey, and he remembers killing the supposed leader of what he had thought was the enemy. What he hadn’t remembered was that the wild-eyed, silver haired young man was in fact himself, a version of himself not yet in existence.

After his ninth face had shot him, he had dragged himself to the TARDIS, already healing. Then he had found a Wgrn lying injured on the ground. From the colored bands wrapped around her head, he realised that was an Empath, the half of the species he had once tried to destroy and now was protecting, despite the fact that his own memories made their death a forgone conclusion.

Now, his injuries would have healed normally, but he had decided that the time had come, and perhaps he could make up partially for a much younger and more violent man’s bad decision by saving at least one of those he killed. And perhaps, in time, her race could return someday.

So, he had leaned over her and poured all the regenerative energy he could into her, giving away the rest of that particular life. Before he was taken by his transformation, she had thanked him.

Later, they had returned, and a “sibling” of Alienor had told him that Wgrn was rebuilding, that perhaps he hadn’t fully destroyed their lives. And he had been forgiven, at least by others.

He was once again woken by his thoughts by Alienor hitting him on the back of the head. “You’re forgiven, remember? You have no control over what you did hundreds of years ago, and you saved my life, and my mind as well. Now, come with me, I still need to introduce you to my friends.”

The Doctor followed tentatively behind her and she walked into the smoke filled air of a city he was much too familiar with. In time, he began to recognize the streets he walked along, realizing that the last time they had seen them they had been covered in snow. “Clara,” he whispered, before shaking his head.

The streets then became familiar, as he remembered them from when they were older. “Baker Street?” he asked, before realizing where she was leading him.

“They told me to bring you here,” she said, before knocking on the door with her wrench. An older woman’s voice answered, and the door opened. “Oh, hello there Doctor, good to see you again,” the woman said, smiling warmly.

“Hello to you, Mrs. Hudson,” The Doctor said, recognizing her despite her age. Though, considering the number on the door, there was a good chance she had met him before in his future.

“They’ve been expecting you, you arranged this meeting after your first one.” Ah. So yet another set of people who did not match up time wise with him.

“Fantastic. Come along then Ali,” he said, and then proceeded to follow her still, feeling mildly lost.

They made it up the familiar steps, and Alienor opened the door. “Hello Doctor,” a familar, but changed voice said, and the Doctor stared as he realized who he was talking to.

“John?”

“Call me Dr. Watson in this time, Doctor. You know how particular Holmes gets about blending in.” At his confusion, John made a face, before nodding. “So this is your first meeting with us. You warned us of that.”

The Doctor nodded, and walked into the flat, and realized that maybe he would be able to fix this after all.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think I should put the 1980s TV show as a tag now?


	24. Memories of future past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor talks to some old friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait guys! Hope y'alls like this.  
> And yes, I'm going back to present tense, sorry about that in the last chapter (*facedesk*)  
> I have a new girlfriend, the fantastic aussiebrd23 :)

“Hello Doctor. Good to see you again,” Sherlock says. Despite it being a hundred years before the last time they saw each other, 221B is surprisingly familiar.

“The same to you, Sherlock. But the last time I saw you, I was playing therapist.”

“I can’t imagine why. I presume Watson was the cause?”

John sighs. “Look, Holmes. This is the first time he’s met us on our end.”

Sherlock nods, understanding. “Apologies. As you likely guessed, the memories are unpleasant.”

“That is by far the mildest word you could have used.” The Doctor shakes his head. “Look, I am sorry about not showing before the Fall.”

John waves the apology away. “It’s been quite a few years since then, for us, Doctor. We’re alright now. Do we know who you are yet, in the future? Alienor promised to bring you to visit us soon after either one of us found out.”

“Sherlock brought it up recently, and I think you’re not far behind.” That had certainly been an interesting conversation, Sherlock quite calmly calling the Doctor out on the fact that he didn’t technically exist. And that his Quebec accent was fake. This also explained why one session Sherlock had suddenly stopped speaking mid-sentence for a full minute. He had been listening to his heart beat.

John nods. “I remember having dreams about the TARDIS. The time-whatevers definitely wanted us to travel with you.”

“Ah, the time-whatevers. They tend to do that.” Probably his term. He did have a tendency to be vague when describing time.

“You’ll get to the countdown. But unfortunately, you’ll have to go before you’re finished treating us. Angels do have a way of messing up carefully laid plans.” Sherlock says. John glares at him.

“Ah. Are these weeping angels, or the regular variety?”

“Weeping,” John sighs. “I can’t tell you when they get to us, but I can tell you this. You’ll find the sonic sooner than you think.”

“Excellent! I’ve been trying to get the TARDIS to make me one, but she hasn’t been working well lately.” What he doesn’t go into detail about is how the TARDIS ended up breaking. Fighting a younger self also involved that younger self’s TARDIS.

“That’s cause I’m the only one who knows how to fix her,” Alienor says, grinning. “So, John, Sherlock, you have something to give to the Doctor to give to your future selves, yes?”

“Right.” Sherlock darted off to look through the piles of papers and other more suspicious looking objects. “Here!” he said, grabbing a hard-bound book. “Give this to me. I’ll need it, emotionally more than anything else.”

“Got it. So, this is something I shouldn’t lose?”

“Yes.”

The Doctor handed it to Alienor. “Keep track of this for me?”

She rolled her eyes. “Because of course you’d lose it.” She holds it up, reading the text on the front. “Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, by John Watson. Looks new, you wrote this?” John nods.

“I reworked some things, to make it make more sense in Victorian times, but basically that’s our story. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was a bit annoyed, says I stole his idea. Well, did, until we met him. Am considering letting him take credit for the stories in a few years, I know we technically shouldn’t exist here.”

“Messing with timelines, always tricky.”

“Especially with yourself,” Alienor comments.

The Doctor turned to her. “Should I tell them?”

She shook her head. “They already know. You tell them later, while you travel together.”

“Er, what do we know?”

“How I become this face.”

“Ah.” John nods, and Sherlock looks a bit spaced out. “Sherlock? Earth to Sherlock?”

He shakes his head. “Sorry, lost in memory. You told us that because you thought you were about to die permanently.”

“Yes. That was an interesting moment…” The Doctor sighs, then starts. “Oh... no. I’ve lost a day. I’m sorry Sherlock, John. Have to scramble.”

The timer, which has become a permanent fixture at the edge of his vision, had stopped while he was here, so he’d hoped he’d be forgiven the time wasted. Now, it seemed not so much.

“The Doctor will fall at Tranzelor” Sherlock called. “You already fell, and the Time Lords gave you a gift. Now you must help them. That’s what you told me to say, Doctor.” He sighed. “We’ll be there with you, don’t worry. They know now, not to go to Christmas. Be wary of crossing your own path, we know what happens when you do.”

The Doctor nodded, and started when John gave him a hug. “Good luck. Our days of traveling with you are over. But your days of traveling with us have just begun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	25. Memories of war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Before the traveling begins, a mad man and a loyal one have a talk about missing wars.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you think I should tag it as Doctor Who? It's a pretty big spoiler.... so.... yeah.

Back in John and Sherlock’s present, the Doctor decides that the best thing he can do is pick them up a few months in the future and plan on going back as therapist after they go back. The TARDIS lands, miraculously (or possibly because of Alienor’s driving) in 221B, but not anywhere where it is necessarily in the way. Mostly.

The in the way definition has to be reapplied after a loud thump signals someone has run into the TARDIS. “Did you turn the perception filter on?” the Doctor asks, turning on the Wgrn.

“I turned it on while we were in Twelfth B'ak'Tun Earth so that they would not notice us. Must have forgotten to turn it off,” she says, almost defensive, tail twitching slightly. Alienor had developed an odd habit of speaking in the Maya calendar. Which may possibly have something to do with her first experience with a human was with a time stranded Mayan almost-sacrifice.

The Doctor opens the door to find John looking vaguely annoyed. “Doctor, you could have warned me.”

“Ah, so you know. Then I definitely need to go back later.” This gains him a raised eyebrow.

Sherlock barrels in from somewhere behind them, before stopping suddenly when seeing the Doctor. “You’re late!” he said, and both the Doctor and John almost can almost hear the sound of brakes screeching in Sherlock’s brain as he attempts to find a reason for what the Doctor surmises is both an anticipated and unexpected arrival.

“How can I be late, I did not make an appointment... unless,” The Doctor is struck by a thought, this time near the left of his brain. “Unless my future self told you my past self would come here now. Did I promise I’d take you with me?”

“Of course you did, we’ve been wanting to go with you for a while now, haven’t we John?”

The army doctor nods. “We discussed this, Sherlock and I, and we think leaving London would be a good idea, triggering memories and all that. So... we’d like to go traveling.”

The Doctor laughs, but somehow he laughs in a way that assures John and Sherlock that he isn’t laughing at them necessarily, just at the absurdity of how he travels in general, and at this particular moment. “Well, come along then. A warning, I have a bit of a prior engagement...”

John nods gravely. “We know.”

This makes him start. “I’ve told you already?”

“Or you will. When did you talk to us last?”

The Doctor nearly says ‘In Victorian London,’ but decides against it. “Sherlock confronted me about my identity,” he chooses instead, looking over at the detective for an instant. He has obviously noticed that he was going to say something else, but thankfully Sherlock is not truly telepathic, merely good at reading people.

The detective lets it drop, social skills having obviously improved in the - the Doctor glances at a callender - six months he skipped. “When did I say I’d come to take you away?”

“Three months ago.” At least it wasn’t two years, this time. Thank whatever deity there was for Alienor and her ridiculously skilled driving of the TARDIS.

“I’m sorry.”

John shrugs even as Sherlock pouts. “It’s nothing, Doctor. From what you said, it’s nothing short of a miracle you landed within a year of the time frame you gave. No wonder you looked so old for our last sessions, you seem to skip around a lot.”

The Doctor tried to be glib, shrugging and waving his arms vaguely. “That’s good, yeah. Thank Alienor for that. I would probably be lost in space without her by now.”

Sherlock stares hard at Alienor, who has just walked out from the TARDIS looking mildly distracted, fiddling with one of the random bits of tech she has a tendency of picking up. This one looks like a cross between a pocket watch missing a face and a Swiss Army knife.

She looks up. "River taught me" she says.

The Doctor's eyes widen. "She spoke to you?"

"I went to the library" is all she says before Sherlock lets out a mildly surprised,

"You're the girl from the photograph in his office."

Alienor nods. “My species reproduces asexually. So, we age until our bodies are viable to reproduce, if we so choose, and then we stop.” A bit of a non sequitur, but Alienor feels it necessary for her to explain this particular part of her species’ biology. Especially considering she looks young for a human.

“How old are you then?” Sherlock asks, curiosity coloring his tone.

“Same as the Doctor, about a thousand years old, give or take a few centuries. Bit of a miracle, being an Empath. At least we’re not being hunted anymore.”

“Hunted?” John asks, incredulously. “Why?”

This must be when the Doctor tells them, decades in their past and minutes in his future. Except, he’s a bit selfish, and he would rather have these two traveling with him before he tells them. Of course, Sherlock sees right through that and says, “It cannot be so bad that we would not travel with you. I for one, find time travel fascinating and John likes helping people, which is what you do mostly.”

The mostly makes the Doctor wince, but before he can speak, Alienor interrupts him. “Doctor, your anxiety is not only unpleasant but unneeded. If I, and the rest of my kind, has forgiven you for your ninth self’s mistake, you must also forgive yourself. Look, I know I sound like an awful Castune self-help android but seriously Doctor.” She turns to John and Sherlock. “His ninth self was somehow duped into believing eliminating the Empath half of the Wnrn would be a fantastic idea. Three regenerations later, he came back and fought on our side, then saved my life, giving up one of his in turn.”

John nods, and looks at Sherlock for a moment. The detective looks uncomfortable before saying, “I know what that’s like.”

“You do, don’t you? Come on then, John, Sherlock, do you still want to travel with me?”

Sherlock nods vigorously and runs into the TARDIS, Alienor close at his heels, presumedly to stop him from breaking anything unnecessarily.

John hangs back, standing with the Doctor still mostly in 221B. “You fought in a war, didn’t you?”

“Yes.” Of course John can tell, even with five faces between him and the one he refuses to name as himself.

“It never leaves you, don’t you think? So you protect those you can, to make up for those you can’t. And yet, you miss the excitement. You hate that, you hate that you miss it, but you take out your wishes in running and tears and laughter.”

The Doctor looks at John in wonderment. “Yes. Since when did you get so good at reading emotions?”

John shrugs, a small smile playing at his lips as he walks through the door of the TARDIS. “Since the day Sherlock Holmes asked for my cellphone,” he said. “Thank you, Doctor, for giving us this.”

There is a note of foretelling, and the Doctor wonders what else John has dreamed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think, personally, that no matter how much guilt the doctor feels, he never felt more alive than when he was fighting.  
> Having so many different memories must be hard on him, don't you think?  
> I wonder if our boys should develop any previously unknown abilities?


	26. Memories of not yet beens

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The mad man and the good doctor speak again while the girl and the fallen search.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've added Doctor Who tags, as per request.  
> I'm sorry if you don't like it because it's Doctor Who.  
> I specifically made a point of making it not canon Doctor Who, but whatever.

It takes a surprisingly short amount of time for both Sherlock and John to become familiar with the TARDIS. After adjusting his view of the world to account for a box that is bigger on the inside, Sherlock strikes up a friendship with Alienor (which John considers semi-miraculous) and goes off exploring.  
John spends a lot of time in the console room, talking with the Doctor. It’s nice for the old alien to have someone who understands, in a limited way, the contradiction inside him related to the Time War.  
“You destroyed your own planet to save the universe?” John asks, as Sherlock and Alienor are recovering from a particularly distressing incident with the cybermen by attempting to fix the still ornery GPS yet again.  
The Doctor had not mentioned this, but the “leader” of this particular brand of cybermen had proclaimed him “Destroyer of Worlds” and John had asked what this meant.  
“Yes. And no.”  
“And no?” John would have been incredulous had his own experiences not taught him that in battle, things do not always go one way or another.  
“I only remembered this around the same time the clock in my brain started counting down. I froze them in time, in a Gallifreyan picture. I need to be there, and I need to find the sonic because without it I cannot complete the calculation to finish the job.” He explains the story of the War Doctor, and how he worked with his tenth self as his eleventh. “On Tranzelor I would have died, had they not given me twelve more lives. Now I have to repay that gift by finding them. I know that, now.”  
John nods. “You aren’t hated Doctor. You know my dreams? I dreamed of a universe of dead stars, where no life exists. That is the universe without you Doctor. You deserve that name.”  
The Doctor sighs. Maybe someday he’ll believe this man, this army doctor. For now, the guilt he carries like another organ has lessened somewhat. He knows the world that John talks of, Clara had told him of it. He backs away from that train of that. His impossible girl was gone now, the way everyone he cared for always ended up leaving. “Thank you, John.”  
“I just say what I think. Which might not be much, sometimes, but for a human, I’ve been alive for a good bit and I like to think that I know a bit how the world works. You’re not evil, Doctor. You’re like all of us, stuck on the light side of grey.” John is wise, the Doctor thinks. He is wise as only a human can be wise, despite their short life spans and status as a lower-species. The dreams he has been given would normally be a sign of a Time Lord gone through the chameleon gate, but in this case, perhaps not.  
“The light side of grey?”  
John smiles. Not one of his full smiles, a small smile that is more a twitch of muscles than a sign of gladness. “I shot a man for Sherlock the first night I met him.”  
“You speak of that kind of loyalty, in your writings.” The Doctor says this without thinking, and realizes it too late.  
He searches the console room, and grabs the brown bound book. “Here.” He gives it to John, who looks at curiously.  
“The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by... John Watson?” a title turned into a question by the way he says it.  
“In some point in the future, I cannot say when, you will be sent beyond my reach. These are your stories, changed to fit Victorian England.”  
“God, Victorian England? Why would we willingly go to Victorian England?”  
“You told me that it was because of Angels.”  
John’s eyes widened. “Angels?” he whispered. They had already seen the devastation those creatures made.  
“I’m sorry John.”  
“Sherlock was with me, right?” he asks. Hard as it is to imagine living before he was ever born, living there without Sherlock, alone in the past without Sherlock, sounds like the closest thing to Hell he could find while still alive.  
The Doctor walks over to John and places an arm on the shorter man’s shoulder. “Yes, he is. Alive and well and very much still himself. The time will not change that.”  
John nodded. “I wonder if I lied.”  
“Hm?”  
“I wonder if I lied, about the Angels. Why would I tell you the truth about that? The first thing you said to me was no spoilers.”  
The Doctor considers this. “I wonder, would you go to that time and stay? There are many people who need helping.”  
“Not now. But if Sherlock wanted to go, probably. London was probably quieter than it is when we are, despite the reputation of that time. And you know me, I follow him, if only to keep him from doing something stupid.”  
“I have a good friend, who lives then. Her name is Lady Vastra and she and her wife Jenny remind me of you two. You’ll like her.”  
John smiles. “Maybe. But I’m not planning on stopping our travels just yet, Doctor.”  
A large crash stops any more discussion. “Oh, damn, that’s from the floor beneath the console. I hope Sherlock’s not broken anything...” The Doctor says.  
“He probably has.”  
As they walk to the Under The Console Room With All the Controls, as Alienor had (very unoriginally, she was proud to point out) dubbed it, they heard someone swearing violently.  
John bursts out laughing. “I know she’s your age, Doctor, but she still looks about fifteen.”  
“I know John.” The Doctor says. He doesn’t laugh though. He’d rather not be thumped in the head with a wrench. Time Lord skulls are resilient, but still. And seeing as Alienor had put a lock on the only part of the TARDIS that the Doctor had trouble operating since River Song had driven her, she was not someone to make angry. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is for aussiebrd23, without whom I would not be writing this story for so long.


	27. Frozen Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time freezes, and the good doctor must fix it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aussiebrd23 wrote the beginning part, I just worked off what it inspired. THANK YOU AGAIN :D

Although John is familiar with the TARDIS, he gets lost quite frequently. Which was why he is  now standing in a thunderstorm. He had been trying to get to the control room to tell Sherlock that swearing in an alien language was not okay, because now whenever they went somewhere, they could be understood perfectly, and to ask Alienor to stop teaching him said swears. And somewhere he went right instead of left, or up the stairs instead of down, and suddenly he was in a room where a thunderstorm was going on.

Which, as always, falls under the category of perfectly normal. At least, it does now, considering the TARDIS. Now to get out...

He turns quickly around when he hears someone calling. “Help me, help me!” in a plaintive tone. John tries to ignore it, knowing that not all the things living in this ship are benevolent, but it is difficult.

He puts a hand over his eyes to shield them, in an attempt to see through the rain better. “Who is there?”

“Help me!” is repeated, instead of an answer, and John is getting more and more suspicious. The last time he responded to a call like that while with the Doctor he had been first confused for a god and then nearly eaten.

John turns back around, and continues walking. He finds a door, kind of just standing in the middle of the room, and walks through it.

He is in the hallway outside of the console room. “What in...?” he wonders aloud, before walking into the console room itself.

The Doctor, Sherlock and Alienor are standing around the center. That is normal. What is not at all normal is that none of them or moving. Or breathing apparently.

Shit. It had happened again. John slams his hand against the wall, and as he expected, no pain. Damn it. Time had frozen again.

For as long as he can remember, John has had moments like this. For a while, he was convinced they were only particularly vivid dreams. Then he met the Doctor, and after a particularly long Freeze (as he’d started calling them) the Doctor had explained that abnormally time sensitive members of lower species would occasionally remain aware when time stuttered because of the actions of the higher. This time sensitivity was also apparently the cause of his unusually prophetic dreams. That and the time streams’ apparent desperate wish that he, Sherlock and the Doctor meet.

He’d been surprised. Why would John be the time sensitive one, not Sherlock? The Doctor had had no answer for this, only that if it ever happened on the TARDIS, he would have to get time going again. Manually.

Apparently she was equipped to deal with moments like this, so if he ever noticed them it meant it was particularly bad.

Going towards the console, he moves the three frozen people as gently as is possible. He then opens the metal bulkhead that keeps the timestream of the TARDIS contained.

What was usually a brilliant flowing stream was pooling, obviously blocked. This is bad. He might even have to enter the moment itself to unblock it. Feeling around gently, he slowly works his hands around, trying to feel for the block itself. This is a difficult process, as it tries continuously to suck him.

This would not even be possible, were time not frozen. From what the Doctor had told him, were he to attempt this while not in his essentially invulnerable frozen state, he would become trapped in a loop of continuous death. Which sounded unpleasant, to say the least.

His fingers finally find the blockage, and he pulls it out. The last time it was a feather, and he had landed in the Amazon rain forest in mid 20th century Earth. This time, it is a strip of fabric he does not recognize. He sighs as he feels himself dissolving. Hopefully he wouldn’t end up in the middle of a firefight, as he had the last time.

The blackness was terrifying, the first time. It is not exactly black, and not exactly not, either. Negative black would be the best way to describe it, or possibly the essence of nothing. Whatever it is, he stays within it for longer than usual, which means he is either farther away in time or in space, he can never tell which. This is something the Doctor has never experienced, being a member of a higher species, so he is no help in that regard.

He blinks, or anyway his nerves transmit the sensation of blinking to his brain, and he is sitting in a small clearing. Everything is in black and white, and at first he thinks this shunt has irreparably damaged his vision. Then he looks down, and he is his normal colored. The fabric is now in his trouser pocket, and he realizes why it was unfamiliar. While covered in lovely patterns, it is as monochrome as the world around him.

He hears someone screaming, and it is the cries for help that he heard in the thunder room, only amplified.

John starts running towards the noise. Hopefully, the Doctor will find him. At the moment, he doesn’t have time to waste on waiting around. Whatever is going on, it doesn’t sound faked. And he would know. He has grown uncomfortably good at telling the difference, in the short amount of time he has been with the Doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll admit, I stole the idea of remain conscious while time freezes from a Star Trek fanfiction I read over at ff.net a while ago.


	28. Remembered six months

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two lost ones are found after half a year and a confrontation is interrupted and postponed for a later date.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay, screwing with time-lines!  
> Mycroft is magically head of the earth in this, basically.   
> Which means that he controls UNIT.  
> Except not when Doomsday happened.  
> SPOILERS FOR DOOMSDAY ARE IN THIS CHAPTER *sobs* ROSE I LOVE YOU

“It’s been a month since Sherlock and John went missing. Do you really think that there’s anything we can do?”  
Lestrade stands in Mycroft’s office, trying to persuade him to look a little longer.   
“Myc, I know it’s been a while since anyone’s seen them, but we have to keep looking.”  
Mycroft sighs. “It’s not that Sherlock can’t be found, it’s that he doesn’t want to be. There’s nothing we can do anymore except wait for them to turn up again.”   
“What if they don’t turn up? You have cameras on 221B. They never came out. Even John and Sherlock can’t vanish out of thin air.”  
Mycroft’s expression shifts, and instead of the calm mask, there is desperation leaking in around his eyes. “I know, Greg. You think I’m any less worried than you? But I have quite literally reached the end of my rope. Unless...” he turns and types something into his computer.  
“What it is?” Greg asks, walking so that he is standing behind Mycroft.  
“This.” Mycroft clicks a link, and a photo pops up.  
It’s John and Sherlock in an old photo, sepia toned. They’re wearing victorian style clothing, with Sherlock’s hat pulled low to cover most of his face. Underneath, in what is obviously a newspaper clipping, a news story details the beginnings of what appears to be a case. “How?” he asks.   
“When I first began my job here, I was briefed in the existence of a man named the Doctor. He is a time traveler from a planet that no longer exists.”  
“That is not possible,” Greg says.  
Even as those words exit his mouth, he hears what is definitely a strumming noise.  
“What’s that?”  
His question is answered by the appearance of a blue police box. The door opens, and John and Sherlock exit, followed by a man and a girl. John is breathing heavily. “We need your help. Really hard to explain, but there’s a situation on the Monochrome planet that needs more than four people to deal with.”  
“First thing, what happened, second, WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN?”  
All four of them start speaking at the same time. Greg catches a few words, none of which make any sense.   
“The situation should be over quickly once you guys give us a hand-” starts the strange man.  
“This is the Doctor-” John says, before he’s interrupted by a “Hello!” from the man.   
“Your reaction to our absence is unnecessary, you really could-” begins Sherlock, before he gets an elbow in the side from the girl, who looks far too young to be alone in that box with a bunch of men.  
Said girl yells loudly. “SHUT UP. YOUR EMOTIONS ARE ANNOYING AND PAINFUL!” before smacking the strange man (the Doctor) over the head. “I’d smack you two as well but that would make me start acting like your mother.” She sighs. “I’m Alienor. I’m a Wgrn. Which means I am possibly a descendant of yours but that is not relevant to right now. I’m a little bit older than a thousand, same as the Doctor. The Doctor is a Time Lord. And you know these two. Apologies for being late, we had to go moving around the universe trying to find John.”  
This is a lot of information to take it. “So you two were in Victorian London?”  
John shakes his head. “Will be. The Doctor’s seen us there, but that’s farther along our timeline, so we’re not going back there quite yet. Crossing your own path through time never ends well.”  
This is vaguely mind bending to Greg, but Mycroft seems to have an understanding of what John means. “How long have you been traveling with the Doctor?”   
“About two months. We have a month more until we’ll be gone for quite some time, even on this end.”  
“Two months? You’ve been gone six months.”  
John winced. “I’m sorry about that. I had to unfreeze the TARDIS’ time stream and I ended up halfway across the universe. So the poor girl’s still a bit shaken up, making us late. That The Doctor was driving is the also a reason for that.”  
“Oi! I’m not that bad!”  
All three turn to the Doctor. “Yes, you are,” John says. “You very nearly landed on the girl I was helping, remember?”  
“That was an accident! More important thing is though, Lestrade, Mycroft, we need your help.” The Doctor is like Sherlock on a bad day on steroids, practically vibrating. “Come on in then!” he said, gesturing at the box.   
“How’re we all going to fit in there?” Greg says sceptically.  
“From the files I’ve read, it apparently is bigger on the inside,” Mycroft says. The Doctor raises an eyebrow.   
“Yup, you do run the government, don’t you? Care to explain why UNIT sat back and watched when the Daleks and the Cybermen were attacking London?” The tone in the alien’s voice is suddenly harder, and Greg tries not to jump at Mycroft’s defense.   
Mycroft sighs, and spreads his hands, “Unfortunately, I was not yet completely in control of the government at that time. I knew of the attack, but my then superiors were convinced you would handle the situation on your own. There was also the issue of the dimensional gate. You destroyed it, but... my superiors, had they known of its existence, would have tried to keep it for themselves.”  
The Doctor still looks upset. “I lost the first person I had loved since my family was killed to a different world. I even gave her a human version of myself to make her happy. Yes, I stopped that Daleks and the Cybermen, but I am not a machine, Mycroft.”  
Greg feels a bit lost. “Look, Doctor, I’m sure you and Mycroft can talk later, but at the moment, isn’t there some situation we need to deal with?  
“Ah, yes. There is a planet, that exists in its own pocket dimension. Everything is completely monochrome, which was thought to just be a quirk of its biology. Now, I realise that somehow the color itself is being drained from the dimension in that planet. And...” he sighs. “There’s a machine, and we’ve found it, but we need the genetic codes of four humans to stop it. Whatever made it must have believed that there are none of you left, which at that time, is true.”  
Greg nods. He still has no idea what is going on, but the Doctor is telling the truth. That he knows. It helps that he has appeared out of thin air in a type of box that has not existed since the 1960s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to Aussiebrd23. You are fantastic.  
> Can't wait to see Sherlock with you :D


	29. Dream Eaten Monochrome World

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They end up on the grey place and almost save someone as to not interfere.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should I make the summaries less cryptic?

Greg looks wide eyed around him as he steps into the box (or the TARDIS, as it is apparently called). “It’s smaller on the outside,” he says in wonder, and the Doctor pouts.

“You’re supposed to say ‘It’s bigger in the inside.’” John shakes his head.

“I thought you said you got over that two lives ago?”

“It’s still nice to hear.” the Doctor says, slightly petulantly.

“How old are you again?” Greg asked incredulously.

“Over a thousand years old, but he still acts like he’s still just a hundred or so,” Alienor says, shaking her head. “Which is about twelve, for humans.”

“I see. And you’re really a thousand?”

“Yep.”

Greg sighs. “Oh god, you’re Sherlock on steroids, aren’t you?”

“No. He and I are friends, but I’m much smarter. And better at dealing with people.”

“No you’re not,” Alienor, the girl, says. “I’m the people person. The tail puts them off though.”

“The tail? You have a tail. You’re a thousand years old, look about fifteen, and you have a tail.” Greg says. “Okay.”

“I’m not human. I’m an evolved form of human. Doesn’t make me any better though. Just old. Moving on, let’s go.”

Mycroft is attempting to mentally compute the physics of the TARDIS. He gives up after about a minute.

“Something wrong, brother dear?” Sherlock says, noticing his facial expression.

“None of this makes sense. It should not exist. I can’t figure it out, but it was obviously constructed...”

The Doctor piped up, “She was born, not made. And she stole me, not the other way around. I just borrowed her. She saved my life though, convincing me to care for humans gave me something to live for after the War.”

“It’s alive?”

“She’s alive, yeah. Learned that after some crazy person shoved her spirit into a body. Nearly blew herself up, poor thing.”I

“I see. Is this legal?”

The Doctor frowns. “The TARDIS? Yeah, she’s legal. You can’t make the fabric of time itself contraband, don’t you think?”

“I guess not.”Mycroft feels the beginnings of guilt, about his decisions during the invasion of London. Old, and so very alone, the Doctor is.

“Hey. Cheer up, he’s fine now.” Alienor says from her perch on a beam.

“How do you know what I’m thinking?”

“Not what you’re thinking, what you’re feeling. Empathy’s fun.”

“Does she do this all the time?” he asks the Doctor.

“Only when she’s bored.”

“Interesting.” Whatever crazed rabbit hole he has fallen down, it is probably more interesting than his job as puppet master of the earth. While fascinating, stopping World War III does get rather routine after a while.

The Doctor, Sherlock, John and Alienor are now running around the console, pushing buttons and trying not to trip over each other. Alienor hits an odd bulge with a wrench, it vanishes and where is was starts smoking. Swearing in a language he unfortunately now seems to understand, she pulls another lever and and the patch of skin-like metal stops smoking.

As Mycroft and Greg watch, bemused and confused by turn, John counts down from five, and the four of them hit identical buttons spaced around the console when he reaches zero. The humming noise comes back, and there is the feeling of sudden landing.

Sherlock walks over to the double doors that should not exist and opens them. The world outside them is grey. Not metaphorically, as any number of intolerable songwriters and authors would use to attempt to explain something as complicated and inexplicable as true depression, but quite literally grey.

Mycroft feels as if he is suddenly looking at the world from the perspective of a monochromatic, and he resists the urge to look down at himself to make sure that his eyes have been irreparably damaged somehow. Instead, he looks over at the Doctor, who is dressed in multicolored clothing that makes him look vaguely like a tinker from days gone by. He must have changed clothing since the last time his photo was taken, just as he had changed his face. The man in the file he had been shown years before had many faces, but not yet this one.

The government official decides then that his duty to the government is superseded by that to his brother, and by extension this man. He will not be the one who shows UNIT this face.

He hears someone crying, and John swears violently. “That’s the girl I tended first time I showed up here. How far off are we from my landing?”

The Doctor looks up, at a clock only he can see, apparently. “Two minutes. You saved her, all we can do is make her partially safer. Or else, we’ll be messing with our own time lines. Or you will be, anyway.”

He starts running, and the five humans or human descendants run after him. Mycroft has a vague inkling of what it is like to be John Watson.

They find a small child with pale grey skin and wide, lidless eyes. She is crying, desperately, in the grips of some sort of energy. The Doctor is searching frantically. “I just found it, just found it, damn it, and now I’ve lost it again...” he mutters.

“Could you be looking for this?” Alienor says with a sigh, grabbing a screwdriver(?) from one of the Doctor’s many pockets.

“Yes!” he says, grinning, and kisses her hard on the lips. “Thank you!”

The alien rolls her eyes, and smiles. “What would you do without me?”  
The Doctor points the screwdriver(?) at the girl, and the energy lessens. “That gives her ten extra minutes. I’m clever, quite clever, actually. This is good. I knew someone had delayed her being completely drained of life by a few minutes, but I hadn’t known it was me. Good thing we were late, actually, because that detour to Chikyuu got me my screwdriver back. Thank you for finding that, Alienor. Without you, I would probably fall into a mineshaft.” How he says all this that quickly, Mycroft has no idea.

They make their way back to the TARDIS. “We have to go to the center of the planet. Come on then!” the Doctor says, much too excited. He seems almost to enjoy risking his life on a minutely basis. Perhaps that is why he, Sherlock, and John get along so well. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit rushes, maybe, sorry about that.  
> We'll be transferring to Mary temporarily next chapter.  
> Love her in the new series, still hate her here.  
> Note: I have a second account, FinallyBlessedQuiet.  
> I have challenged myself to write a story for all possibly pairing combinations of John, Greg, Moriarty, Lestrade, Mycroft and (possibly) Season3!Anderson. Aussie is helping me, because she is amazing :D THANKYOU  
> If you have any idea, tell me in the comments :D


	30. Finally

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The humans, human descendants and not humans start the journey to a forgotten home.

John likes tea. He considers it one of the everyday pleasures of life, along with jazz music and warm baths. So it’s no surprise that when everything has returned to normal, he sets about brewing a pot of English Breakfast.

Normal, for them, anyway. The thing had been rather straightforward, actually. They had managed to stop the machine that was not actually draining the world’s color, but its dreams (don’t ask him how that works, he just went with what the Doctor said). The application of human DNA had almost set off an automated army, but thankfully it had been so long since the place had been created that all of it had fallen to pieces.

The Doctor had originally wanted to get rid of the dimension, placing the planet in the real universe, but it had been quickly discovered that its actual location in realspace was where humans thought Pluto was. And while humans were apparently unobservant, they would notice that.

Large planets the size of the Earth suddenly popping into existence at the edge of the galaxy would likely ruin any hope for Galileo to be taken seriously, as the religious right may have taken it as a sign of God.

And as Mycroft had pointed out, destroying a few hundred years of history would do absolutely nothing useful for anyone.

The Doctor had commented that God would never do something as obvious as turn a planet into a bigger planet. The five of them had stared at him, and he had shrugged. “I have friends in high places,” was all he had been willing to say.

Somehow, the kitchen in the TARDIS has an infinite supply of tea, but not much else. They have to make periodic stops to get food, except they have to be careful or else it will rot prematurely. Timey wimey, apparently.

They dropped Mycroft and Greg off a few minutes after they’d been picked up, a few days older but not any worse for wear.

The Doctor interrupts John’s quiet moment by rushing into the room, yelling loudly. “It’s time, it’s time it’s time!” he yells.

John sprays the mouthful of tea across the table. “What’s happening?”

The Doctor looks terribly excited, in the way that Sherlock looked excited when he was standing on top of Barts, preparing to jump. “It’s time. We have to go to Gallifrey. Soon, now. The calculations are done!”

“Now?”

“As close to now as possible. Please help! I remember you two were with the fourteenth me I saw.”

“Okay, okay. I’ll get Sherlock and be right there.”

The relief on the Doctor’s face is palpable. “THANKYOU” he says, kissing John full on the lips. “Alienor will kill me if she finds out, sorry about that!” he says, before running off.

John stands in shock for a full minute before dazedly turning to get Sherlock. One would think he’d be used to that, by now. But what is more shocking is the almost admission that The Doctor and Alienor are together. It was slightly obvious, but it’s good to have confirmation. And now The Doctor had officially kissed both he and Sherlock. Why was this normal? Because it was the Doctor.

Not bothering to think on that too deeply, John goes looking for Sherlock. He hears a loud bang from the kitchen, and decides that the best place to start. Both he and Alienor are grinning like loons, and John says, “The time has come.”

“Brilliant!” Alienor all but shrieks. “Come on!”

“Alright. Are you sure it is right this time?”

“Positive!”

“Fantastic!”

“I don’t know what’s going on!”

“We have to go to Gallifrey with the Doctor to help him save it.”

“Okay!”

“Let’s go! We have a planet to freeze in a time bubble.”

“Fun!” Sherlock says and makes his way to the parked TARDIS.

The door opens and the Doctor is almost literally vibrating. “Come on come on come on we have to go!” he says, running around the room and throwing levers in a seemingly meaningless manner.

Alienor runs up to the GPS. “Behave, will you? Today’s kind of important.”

The GPS would have scowled had he a face. Instead, what he does it make a sort of annoyed grunting noise. “Woah, woah, don’t hit me will yah? I’ll not screw anything up, I promise.”

The Wgrn makes a threatening gesture with her wrench. “I will hit you, if I have to.”

The Doctor suddenly grabs the wrench away from her, excitement and desperation making him do something he usually wouldn’t dare to do. “No time, no time, we have to go, we have to go, we have to go now!”  
His eyes are wide, hair everywhere like that of a mad scientist’s, and he looks both scared and excited. He’s nearly babbling now, and John is sincerely worried for the man’s sanity.

Flipping a final switch, the noise of the TARDIS starts up. And then everything starts vibrating. “What’s happening?” John shouts above the noise.

The Doctor says, “She doesn’t like where we’re going, but she knows we don’t have a choice.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft: I am not at all in character in this.
> 
> Me: Yes, you are. Mycroft in TV show is different because you've had different life experiences, considering how bloody ordinary your parents are.
> 
> Soul: Seriously, they're more ordinary than mine.
> 
> Me: Soul Eater Evens, there is absolutely nothing ordinary about your world, at all.
> 
> Eren: I'm ordinary.
> 
> Me: Yeah, no you're not. And STOP CROSSING OVER DARN IT


	31. Happy Ending

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This it folks. Thank you for being with me on this ride, it was very fun.

They land with a crash. More of one than usual, because even the Doctor looks nervous. "We shouldn't have landed."

Flipping a few more switches, the TARDIS took off again. This time the view screen lit up. "Alright, we're here now!" he shouted.

Voices, speaking in a language that the TARDIS seemed unwilling to translate. The Doctor was talking, screaming sometimes to be heard.

Placing his sonic on the console, the sound of loading power reverberated through the TARDIS. "When I say push, you all push any button you can reach, Kay?" Alienor said, somehow understanding what was going on. Sherlock and John nodded mutely.

A few seconds later, she screamed loudly, and Sherlock and John pushed everywhere frantically. The TARDIS shuddered violently, consoles making warbling noises and lights flashing at twice the rate as before.

The Doctor had his hands clenched tightly behind him, eyes locked on the viewscreen. Then, everything went white and John and Sherlock were thrown backwards. The sounds of the TARDIS coalesced into a high pitched whine, and then everything went from white to black and the two humans dropped out of consciousness.

Sherlock awoke with a strange taste in his mouth, like metal. Groaning slightly, he propped himself on his elbows, wincing slightly as his head starts up a protesting pounding. The TARDIS is wrecked, and a strange man and Alienor are looking down on him. “Before you ask, I’m the Doctor. We’ll have to vacate the TARDIS for a while so she can fix herself, but other than that, I think we’ll be fine.”

Sherlock got up, and helped John get up, and the two of them stepped outside the TARDIS, followed closely by the Doctor, who had apparently regenerated because of the energy output of the TARDIS, and Alienor who looked exactly the same.

Blinking in the dim light, he realized where he was. “Victorian London?” he wondered aloud, and grinned at John.

“I guess this is time to say goodbye, Doctor.”

**Author's Note:**

> THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR COMMENTING :D


End file.
